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BREATH OF THE HILLS 


TALES OF COUNTRY LIFE 


By 

Cornelia Boyden Pierce 

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From the breath of the hills, 

And the new mown hay, 

The up turned sod, and the blue bird’s lay, 
The Father hath fashioned, with wisdom sure, 
The souls that are strong, 

And brave, and pure. 



COPTRIGHT 1923 


BY CORNELIA BOYDEN PIERCE 






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BREATH OF THE HILLS 


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TO MY MOTHER. 

Whose memory has ever been my 
Inspiration and my guide, 
This booh is lovingly dedicated. 



4 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


WHAT IS SUCCESS? 


Come tell us, ye who’ve won success, thy goal; 

And if within thy weary time-stained soul, 

Thou feelest such pure joy at thy fair gain, 

That pays for all thy struggles, fears and pain; 

If having reached the height of thy fond hope, 

Thou canst forget the rocks along the slope, 

Or smooth the scars of battle from thy brow, 

Or hold erect the head that time doth bow? 

What is success? The thing that men call fame, 

The world’s applause, and clamor o’er a name? 

The hoard of riches gained through years of strife, 
The stately honors of a great man’s life? 

To rule, perchance, this fair and noble land, 

To wear a crown, a scepter in one’s hand, 

To sway the people with thy slightest word, 

While over land and sea thy voice is heard? 

Is this thy goal? That fair and beauteous shore 
Men call success? And dost thou feel no more 
That weary yearning for some greater good, 

Which till thou gained thy height none understood? 
Do not thine eyes still see that distant star, 

Whose Turing gleam yet beckons thee afar? 

Till all that thou hast gained seems poor indeed; 

For with thy great power comes greater need. 

Oh, man! Though riches, honor, fame be thine, 
Thou art but human, and the power divine 
Dost make thy pride, thy knowledge seem but small, 
Before the silent mystery of Death’s cold pall. 

And if thy page in life’s great history be 
But filled with noble deeds, from blemish free, 

If one true heart prays God thy name to bless, 

Then thou hast reached the haven of success. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


5 


KETURAH’S GUMPTION. 


“If it wa’n’t for Keturah’s gumption, the whole Perkins 
family would ’a’ been in the poor house long ago,” said Mrs. 
Jonah Sawin, tying an extra knot in the needleful of cotton 
yarn she had just drawn through the comfortable she was 
tacking. 

“Why, how you talk!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, pricking her 
finger in her surprise. “I alius supposed the Penkinses to be 
about as forehanded as any one’round these parts.” 

“Humph!” answered her neighbor with a toss of her head, 
“they do manage to make quite a show out er nothin’; but as 
I said before, it’s all owin’ to Keturah’s gumption. My place 
jines on to theirn an’ I aint lived neighbor to ’em for nigh on 
to twenty years ‘thout knowin’ putty nigh how they push 
along. It’s ’bout five years now since Mis’ Perkins died, an’ 
‘Bijah took to his bed with rheumatis’ in his jints, all that 
winter. That youngest gal, Ruth, was about as shiftless a 
piece as nature often makes, an’ that boy o’ theirn wa’n’t 
much better, so the brunt o’ everythin’ jest fell on to Keturah. 
Poor gal, she showed a’ mazin’ sight o’ grit that fust year, an’ 
put her shoulder to the wheel with a vengeance. She was jest 
twenty that spring, but a woman o’ forty couldn’t ’a’ showed 
more sense an’ forthought in the way she managed things.” 

“Do tell what she did so wonderful?” said Mrs. Brown 
hitching her chair a bit nearer and leaning forward eagerly. 

“Wonderful! why it was all wonderful, to see the way she 
give up bein’ a school-marm when her whole heart had been 
sot on’t from the time she was knee high to a grasshopper, an’ 
took to raisin’ chickens an’ makin’ butter an’ doin’ farm work 
generally. Not a word o’ complaint did she make, but jest 
worked as hard as ever she could to keep the family comfort¬ 
able; an’ grew peaked an’ sharp-nosed lookin’ every day. But 




6 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


la! no one seemed to notice it but me, for Bijah was so took 
up with his rheumatis’, an’ those two youngsters, John an’ 
Ruth, was too lazy and selfish to care ’bout anythin’ but their 
own comfort.” 

“Why, Mis’ Sawin, there aint two puttier lookin’ creeters 
in town than John an’ Ruth Perkins,” spoke up Mrs. Brown 
with some spirit, “an’ to hear ’em sing in meetin’ on a Sunday, 
sounds like as if ’t was the angels.” 

Mrs. Sawin glanced sharply at her companion. “Well, I 
didn’t say but what the children had improved some as they’ve 
grown older, but that’s all Keturah’s doin’. She’s jest pushed 
’em along an’ made ’em what they never ‘d ’a’ been ’thout 
her. As for singing like the angels, I never was so fortunate 
as to hear an angel sing, so I’m no jedge o’ that; an’ daisies 
and goldenrod are putty to look at, but they aint no ’arthly 
use as I know on.” 

Mrs. Brown made no answer to this, and the two women 
sewed in silence a few moments. 

“Seems to me the Perkins family put on considerable style 
for folks as poor as you say they be,” spoke up Mrs. Brown, 
at last. “They ’ve had the house painted this fall, an’ a new 
bay window put on; an’ they ’ve got an organ for I ’ve hearn 
it lots o’ times, a passin’ by the house.” 

I didn t say they was so dreadful poor now,” answered 
Mrs. Sawin a little sharply, “I only said what I ’ll say ag’in, 
that it’s been Keturah’s gumption that’s kept things from 
goin’ to rack an’ ruin. 

“When Mis’ Perkins died, ’Bijah jest seemed to collapse an’ 
grow more shiftless every day; but after a while seein’ how 
smart an’ willin’ Keturah took hold, he got sorter ’shamed o’ 
bein so lazy, an’ so took to lookin’ after things a little better. 
Every summer Keturah has kept a lot o’ summer boarders, an’ 
done most all the work herself, an’ that ’s where the money ’s 
come from to paint the house an’ make that new window. An’ 
she ’s earned the money to pay for Ruth’s lessons on that 
organ, too, so she can get to play in church sometime.” 

“Dear me, you don’t say,” said Mrs. Brown. “Well, it’s a 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


7 


pity Keturah aint more to look at, for with all her gumption 
she don’t run so much to good looks as the rest on ’em.” 

Mrs. Sawin straightened up, and her eyes flashed. 

“ There be folks who can only see beauty in a face like a 
china doll; an’ there be others who look beyond pink cheeks 
and yeller hair, an’ the soul that looks out o’ Keturah’s eyes 
is beauty enough for any face. Talk ‘bout angels singin’! If 
there be sich things as angels, it’s my opinion they look like 
Keturah Perkins.” 

“La! Mis’ Sawdn, how tetchy you be ’bout that gal. You 
must think a sight on her to talk ’bout her the way you do,” 
said Mrs. Brown, looking at her neighbor curiously. 

Mrs. Sawin’s sharp eyes grew moist and her voice softened, 
as she answered: 

“I aint no children of my own, Mis’ Brown, and I’ve watched 
Keturah grow up from a baby, an’ I do set a sight by her, it’s 
a fact. I’ve been a-running in an’ out o’ there in a neighborly 
way ever since her mother died, an’ Keturah sort o’ depends 
on me at preservin’ time. But la! her preserves beat mine all 
to nothin’, so I aint much use after all,” she added, loyally. 

“I’m sure, Mis’ Sawin, it ’s mighty good on ye to take sich 
an interest in the poor, motherless creeters, an’ no doubt ye ’ll 
get yere reward hereafter,” said Mrs. Brown, piously. 

“I aint lookin’ for no reward,” answered Mrs. Sawin. “I 
gets as much comfort a-runnin’ in to see ’em as any good I 
can do ’em. But, there, I guess this comfortable is about done, 
Mis’ Brown, an’ I must be a-gettin’ home,” added she, rising. 

“I ’m ’mazin’ thankful to ye, Mis’ Sawin, for helpin me 
with this comfortable,” said Mrs. Brown, bustling about and 
helping her guest put on her things, “an’ when ye turn ye 
sheets don’t forget to let me know, an’ I ’ll sew an atternoon 
for you, jest to get square.” 

“Thank ye, Mis’ Brown, but I ’m a-gettin the double width 
sheetin’ nowadays, so I don’t have to turn ’em.” 

“Sho! ye don’t say! Aint it considerable more costly?” 

“Well, jest a little, maybe, but it saves a sight o’ work, an’ 



8 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


my eyes aint so good at sewin’ over an’ over as they used to 
be,” said Mrs. Sawin, opening the door. 

As the two women stood in the doorway, a horse and sleigh 
swept past with a merry jingle of bells. The single occupant 
of the sleigh lifted his hat politely as he passed the house, and 
was soon out of sight on the smooth country road. 

“Dreadful polite young feller, Dr. Andrews,” said Mrs. 
Brown, craning her neck to peer up the road. “I wonder if 
he aint a-goin’ to the Perkins’s, he’s headed that way. Ye 
aint heard as any on ’em are sick, have ye?” 

“Not unless it ’s Bijah’s rheumatis’ that’s pesterin’ of him 
considerable this winter.” 

“Maybe the Doctor ’s makin’ up to one o’ the gals; they are 
both on ’em old enough to get married, an’ Ruth’s putty 
enough to be a minister’s wife, or a doctor’s, either,” laughed 
Mrs. Brown. 

Mrs. Sawin closed her lips tightly and made no answer, but 
nodding a good-bye to her friend, walked swiftly along the 
snowy road. 

Ruth, indeed! ’ ’ she muttered to herself, as she tramped 
along, “I jest wish the men had more sense; but there aint 
one on ’em but ’ll run atter a putty face, brains or no brains. 
An’ smart, capable gals like Keturah are left to be old maids 
an’ wear out their lives a-takin’ care o’ other folks’ children. 
Well, sich is life, an’ the poor calculation o’ men folks,” and 
the good woman shook the snow from her shoes, as she paused 
before her own door with the air of one who resigns all 

further responsibility as to that poor misguided creature called 
man. 

The Perkins farmhouse stood on a high elevation of land 
surrounded by many broad acres. A thick grove of pine and 
spruce in the background made the house, with its fresh coat 
of paint, a conspicuous object from the road below. 

. The sllimn g window-panes reflected the last rays of the set¬ 
ting sun, while the gleam of the burning logs in the old-fash¬ 
ioned fireplace shone out in the gathering gloom of that brief 
winter’s day. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


9 


Young Dr. Andrews drove up to the door with a feeling of 
pleasant anticipation. It was not a professional call he was 
about to make, and for the time being all disagreeable thoughts 
of the ills that flesh is heir to had passed from his mind. A 
bright vision of pink cheeks, blue eyes and fluffy curls, and the 
memory of Ruth Perkins’s sweet voice, filled his thoughts to 
the exclusion of all else. A newcomer in the small country 
town, he had, in a year’s time, by his skill and devotion to his 
profession, together with a pleasing personality, won the 
hearty good-will of the people. A pretty cottage house had 
recently sprung up on one of the principal streets in the vil¬ 
lage, and much of the Doctor’s spare time was spent in super¬ 
intending its completion. The tongues of the gossips had 
wagged for some time, as to who was to be the mistress of the 
young physician’s home; but thus far, Philip Andrews had 
kept his own council. 

To tell the truth, he had but very recently come to any deci¬ 
sion in his own mind; for having thoroughly enjoyed his 
bachelor’s freedom, it was only upon his thirty-fifth birthday, 
that he awoke to the fact that it was not well for man to dwell 
alone always. Heart-whole and fancy free, he looked about 
among the village beauties with an impartial eye, but alas! not 
one had the power to awaken more than a brief interest. Some¬ 
what surprised at his own coldness, he had decided to let fate 
settle the problem for him, when Ruth Perkins’s pretty face 
and sweet singing suddenly aroused a warmth in his heart he 
had not known before. A few visits at the pleasant farm¬ 
house where Ruth had entertained him in a sweet childish 
fashion, had sung for him her prettiest songs and cast coquet¬ 
tish glances out of her blue eyes, completed the conquest, and 
Philip Andrews was really in love at last. Yes, the little god 
Cupid had pierced the cold armor of his bachelor’s heart, and 
life began to look quite rosy-hued to the usually grave young 
Doctor. 

A sleighride to an adjoining town, to be followed by a supper 
and a dance, was the occasion of much excitement among the 
young people of the village. With Ruth for his companion, 




10 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


Dr. Andrews anticipated the event with much pleasure, while 
the thought that on this occasion a certain question should be 
asked and answered gave to it a decided importance. 

The day and the hour had come, and as Philip sprang from 
his sleigh and up the steps of the farmhouse, the door was 
thrown open and Ruth stepped quickly out to meet him. Lift¬ 
ing her into the cosy sleigh he wrapped the robes about her 
with tender care, then stepping in beside her he turned his 
horse’s head and they were soon speeding along the smooth 
road. 

From the window, Keturah watched her sister and her lover 
drive away. Yes, he must be her lover, she thought, though 
she knew no word had yet been spoken between them. A 
feeling of utter loneliness swept over her, and crouching down 
she leaned her head against the cold window-pane, and in the 
dim twilight of that shadowy room gave herself up to gloomy 
reflections. It was not often that the brave-hearted girl yielded 
to such emotions, but human nature is not always strong, nor 
can the heart forever crush down its natural longings. Silent¬ 
ly the tears rolled down her cheeks, though she knew not why 
she wept, nor why the sound of the receding bells fell upon 
her tired spirit with such an icy chill. 

Suddenly a door opened and a voice called out in the dark¬ 
ness, 

“Keturah Perkins, be you there?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Sawin, come in,” answered Keturah, in a smoth¬ 
ered voice. 

“For the land sakes what be you a-doin’ a-sittin’ in the dark 
all alone?” cried Mrs. Sawin, groping her way into the dim 
room. “Where’s Ruth?” she added, peering about. 

“Gone to the sleigh ride with Dr. Andrews,” answered 
Keturah. 

“Humph!” said Mrs. Sawin, pulling off her shawl and 
dropping into a chair, “why didn’t you go, too?” 

“ 4 Nobody asked me to, said she,’ ” quoted Keturah, with a 
little laugh that ended in a sob. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


11 


Kind-hearted Mrs. Sawin bent forward and drew the girl up 
into her motherly arms, and Keturah hid her face against that 
broad shoulder, silently. 

“What a goose I am,” she said at last, springing up, “I’ve 
been sitting so long in the dark it has given me a fit of the 
blues. Do let me get a light.” 

Mrs. Sawin’s keen eyes searched Keturah’s face, and read, 
with tender insight the warfare that was going on in the girl’s 
soul. 

“So Doctor Andrews is makin’ up to Ruth, is he?” she said 
bluntly, determined to know the truth at all cost. “They aint 
engaged, be they?” 

“No—not—not yet,” answered Keturah, moving about the 
room and avoiding the elder woman’s eyes. 

“Think it looks that way, don’t ye?” 

“Yes, I think so,” answered poor Keturah, growing white. 

“Well, there ’s no accountin’ for tastes,” said Mrs. Sawin 
bluntly, rising to go, “but then Ruth ’s a putty enough gal, 
only she’s too young to think o’ gettin’ married.” 

“Ruth ’s nineteen,” said Keturah, lighting her guest to the 
door. 

“An’ Dr. Andrews is thirty-five,” said Mrs. Sawin, stepping 
into the night. “Well, that don’t make no difference, I s’pose, 
if they are sot on each other.” 

“No, age doesn’t make any difference in such matters,” an¬ 
swered Keturah, wearily, and closing the door she went back 
to her lonely thoughs in the empty room. 

Meanwhile Philip and Ruth were gliding swiftly along the 
frosty road. The Doctor’s usually calm pulse was throbbing 
with emotions wholly new, while Ruth’s foolish little heart 
beat fast with exultation over her conquest. An early moon 
had risen and was flooding the earth with its silvery light, and 
millions of brilliant stars twinkled merrily in the blue sky over¬ 
head. Surely it was a night made for love and lovers, thought 
Philip, and tender words trembled on his lips; yet with the 
doubt and humility of a true lover, he repressed them for the 
time, fearing to mar the perfect bliss of the present. Joyously 



12 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


the dancing bells made the sweetest music as they sped along, 
when suddenly they clashed and crashed with a loud discord, 
as the horse plunged violently, startled by some object by the 
roadside. Quickly quieting the frightened animal, Philip 
sprang to the ground. 

It was the insensible form of a woman, with a little child 
clasped in her cold arms, that was lying in the snow, and in¬ 
stantly Philip was a changed man. 

“Ruth,” said he, as he hastily examined the apparently life¬ 
less form, “I must take this poor woman to a place of shelter. 
She has almost perished with cold and exhaustion.” 

Ruth glanced at the narrow seat of the sleigh, and with a 
childish pout said pettishly: 

“How can you? There isn’t room.” 

“Jump out, Ruth, quick, and help me,” cried the Doctor, 
heedless of her words, and, impelled by his stronger will, she 
obeyed. Placing the sleeping infant in her reluctant arms, 
Philip lifted the woman in to the sleigh, wrapping the robes 
about the cold form, then stepping in beside her he held out his 
hand for the child. 

“Give me the baby, Ruth, and wait here till I come for you. 
There is a house half a mile further on, and I’ll take the poor 
creature there, and be back for you as quick as I can.” 

A fierce, ungovernable rage took possession of Ruth’s 
childish soul. 

“Do you mean, Dr. Andrews, that you are going to leave me 
here, alone, on this lonely road” she cried. 

“I am sorry, Ruth, but I see no other way,” answered he, a 
little sternly. “I do not think there is any danger for you, 
and I’ll not be gone but a very few moments.” 

Ruth drew up her small figure and threw back her head 
defiantly. 

“If you do, Doctor Andrews, I ’ll never speak to you again 
as long as I live,” she said passionately. • 

Without a word, Philip drove swiftly away, and Ruth stood 
trembling with fear and rage, alone on that moonlit road. 
Stiangely enough, no feeling of pity for the unfortunate 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


13 


woman and her helpless babe had touched her heart. Her 
bitter disappointment, at the unlooked-for interruption of what 
was to have been her hour of triumph, seemed to have crowded 
all else from her mind. Suddenly the sound of sleigh-bells 
made her shrink back with a new terror, till on a nearer ap¬ 
proach she recognized a familiar form. 

“Charlie? oh, Charlie Ruggles!” she cried. “Stop! It’s me, 
Ruth Perkins. ” 

With a loud “Whoa!” to his horse, and a muttered exclama¬ 
tion of surprise, the young man sprang from his sleigh and 
stood beside her. 

“What has happened? Why are you here, alone, Ruth, at 
this time of night?” he cried, throwing his arm about the 
trembling girl, who, in her relief at the sight of a friend, was 
clinging to his arm and sobbing violently. 

“Doctor Andrews left me here,” sobbed Ruth. “We were 
going to the sleigh ride, when we saw a woman lying in the 
snow, and he made me get out, and told me to wait while he 
carried the woman to the next house. And I—I was afraid.” 

“He’s a brute,” said Charlie, tightening his clasp of the 
girl’s slim waist, “and you shall not wait here another mo¬ 
ment. Come, let me take you to the sleigh ride, and leave Dr. 
Andrews to take care of his sick folks; that’s his business,” 
and with an inward chuckle at the thought of cutting out the 
Doctor, Charlie lifted Ruth in his strong young arms and placed 
her in his sleigh. A secret feeling of satisfaction in thinking of 
the Doctor’s alarm and discomfiture, on finding her gone, made 
Ruth dry her tears, and yield herself to the young fellow’s 
pleading. So, in less time than it takes to tell it, they were 
speeding along in the moonlight, and the bells danced as merry 
a tune as if fate had not just changed the current of two lives. 

A few moments later, Dr. Andrews was back at the spot 
where he left Ruth, and drawing in his horse, he scanned each 
side of the lonely road with eager eyes. 

His heart sank with sudden alarm, as he failed to see the 
slim form he had left but a short time before, and his voice 
trembled as he spoke her name. 



14 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Ruth! Ruth! Where are you?” 

“She ’s gone off with another feller,” called out a boyish 
voice from the top of the stone wall opposite, and dropping 
down from his perch, a farmer’s boy stood grinning at the 
Doctor from the side of the road. 

“How do you know?” asked Philip, smothering his pride in 
his anxiety. 

“ ‘Cos I seen her,” answered the boy, still grinning mali¬ 
ciously. “An’ I hearn her say as how Dr. Andrews left her 
here, an’ then the feller he put his arm ’round her an’ said 
Dr. Andrews is a brute. Say, be you he?” 

The Doctor turned his horse’s head and drove away with¬ 
out a word, while the boy shouted after him with mocking 
laughter: 

“Got the mitten, didn’t ye? Ha! ha! ho! ho!” 

All through the long hours of that night Philip Andrews 
ministered to the wants of the female tramp he had picked up 
from the wayside, and when, in the dim light of the early 
morning he drove back to his office in the village, he had the 
satisfaction of knowing that, for good or ill, he had saved a 
human life. In spite of this, however, his reflections were none 
of the pleasantest as he reviewed the events of the last twenty- 
four hours, and a stinging feeling of contempt for his own 
folly swept over him as he muttered to himself: 

“And I had almost asked that girl to be my wife.” 

The wheels of time rolled onward, with the usual course of 
human events. The Doctor’s pretty cottage house was com¬ 
pleted, but the Doctor dwelt there in single blessedness. Pret¬ 
ty Ruth Perkins had married Charlie Ruggles, and gone West 
to live, and Philip Andrews smiled calmly at this ending of 
Ruth’s moonlight escapade. He realized now that his own 
fancy for childish Ruth had no solid foundation, and he had 
fully decided that, as regards his own case, marriage was a 
failure. 

Thus matters stood, when one cold winter’s day, Mrs. Sawin 
walked into Doctor Andrew’s office with such an agitated 
look on her face that Philip exclaimed in some concern: 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


15 


“Well, Mrs. Sawin, what is it?” 

“I’m dreadful ’fraid that Keturah Perkins is a goin’ into 
a decline,” burst out the good woman as she dropped into a 
chair. 

“What makes you think so, Mrs. Sawin?” asked the Doctor, 
smiling at her excitement. 

“Cos she ’s a growin’ more an’ more peaked-lookin’ every 
day, an’ coughs dreadful, an’ she don’t eat enough to keep a 
cat alive. You see, Doctor, all the gumption of the whole 
Perkins family was jest crowded into that poor gal’s little 
body, an’ it ’s jest made her drive along with all the hard 
work in the house an’ out o’ the house, till she ’s nigh about 
used up. Her poor mother died in quick consumption jest 
from overwork, an’ I do declare for ’t, Doctor, it’ a more than 
I can bear to set by and see that poor gal a-goin’ the same 
way,” and the woman’s eyes were full of tears as she spoke. 

“But what can I do about it?” asked the Doctor. “Miss 
Perkins hasn’t consulted me professionally, and, of course, I 
couldn’t prescribe for her otherwise.” 

“That ’s jest it, Doctor,” said Mrs. Sawin eagerly. Ketu¬ 
rah ’s ’mazin sot about not seein’ a doctor. Says there aint 
nothin’ the matter, but I know better. Now ye couldn’t jest 
manage to drop in there sort o’friendly like for a call, an’ see 
for yer self, could ye?” and she searched the Doctor’s face 
earnestly as she spoke. 

Philip looked thoughtful a moment as he considered the wo¬ 
man’s words. To tell the truth, the farmhouse on the hill was 
rather a sore spot in his memory, and not once since that 
eventful night a year ago, had he crossed its threshold. How¬ 
ever, if it was in his power to help any one in trouble or sick¬ 
ness, he would not let personal likes, or dislikes, hold him 
back. Yet his voice sounded a little reluctant as he answered 
slowly: 

“Why, certainly, I can do that, Mrs. Sawin, with pleasure, 
and you don’t think Miss Perkins would be displeased to see 
me?” 

“I know she’d be real glad to, Doctor, for she do get dread- 



16 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


ful lonesome since Ruth went away,” said Mrs. Sawin, rising 
to go. As she stood by the Doctor’s table a moment, her fin¬ 
gers touched a late magazine and her eyes grew wistful as she 
added hesitatingly: “Keturah ’s ’mazin’ fond o’ reading’. I 
jest wonder if she ’s seen this ere magazine.” 

“I’ll carry it to her when I call,” said the Doctor eagerly 
seizing this excuse for a visit to the farmhouse. 

“That ’ll be dreadful good on ye, Doctor, an’ I jest hope 
ye’ll give Keturah somethin’ that ’ll help that cough o’ hern.” 

“I ’ll do my best, Mrs. Sawin,” said the Doctor as he opened 
the door for her. 

The good woman trudged slowly across the snowy fields to 
her own house with a satisfied look on her shrewd face. 

“I ‘spose I be a meddlin’ old fool,” she muttered, “but I 
jest couldn’t help it. But now I ’ll leave the rest on ’t to the 
Lord and Doctor Andrews.” 


Keturah Perkins sat by the open fire of logs in the low old- 
fashioned room, and gazed thoughtfully at the dancing flames. 
The shadows of an early twilight were darkening its corners, 
and creeping stealthily toward the lonely figure by the fire. 
Outside a blustering wind was whirling the light snow in little 
pats against the windowpane, that sounded to Keturah like 
the tapping of ghostly fingers. 

Morbid fancies had come to dwell with the girl of late, and 
her usual cheerfulness had forsaken her. With Ruth’s mar¬ 
riage and home-leaving Keturah’s courage seemed to wane, 
and in spite of struggles to regain the force and ambition that 
carried her so bravely through many trials, the loneliness of 
the old house oppressed her like a nightmare. 

Into the midst of these musings walked Dr. Andrews, and 
Keturah, surprised and startled at his sudden appearance, 
held out her hand in a glad welcome. The nervous tremor in 
the girl s fingers caused Philip to hold them longer in his own 
firm clasp than was absolutely necessary. With a swift rush 
of crimson to her white cheeks and a sweet, questioning look 
in the giay eyes lifted to his, Keturah’s face bloomed with a 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


17 


new beauty, and with a quickening of his own pulse, Philip 
Andrews wondered that he ever thought the girl plain. 

Ah, well! what does it matter how it all came about. That 
Dr. Andrews’s pleasant call at the farmhouse on the hill was 
but the first of many, goes without telling. That Keturah 
Perkins utterly refused to go into a decline, in spite of good 
Mrs. Sawin’s prophecy, is another foregone conclusion, and 
that Dr. Andrews once more changed his views on the mar¬ 
riage question, and made Keturah Perkins the mistress of his 
home. 

“I declare for ’t, Mrs. Sawin,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown to 
her neighbor shortly after the Doctor’s marriage, “if Keturah 
Perkins aint grown to look real handsom’ since she got mar¬ 
ried.” 

“She alius did look handsom’ to me,” answered Mrs. Sawin 
with spirit, “an’ what’s better ’n good looks, she ’s got some 
gumption, too.” 


SLEEP. 


Oh sleep ! Thou fickle phantom thing; 

Come to my couch, and round me fling 
Thy soothing arms. Touch thou mine eyes 
With thy soft lips; do not despise 
My prayers, but let me woo thee now. 

Ah! listen while I make my vow 
To serve thee, and, with all my heart, 

Obey, if thou wilt not depart. 

Alas! wilt thou not bring me peace, 

And cause my weary head to cease 
Its throbbing? Fold thy shadowy wings, 
And, ere the early sunlight flings 
Its rays to light this world, so fair, 

Smooth from my brow these lines of care. 





18 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


FIDELIA'S VALENTINE. 


The room looked bare and cheerless by the dim light of the 
candle that stood up on the old-fashioned bureau. Fidelia 
Thompson shivered, as she bent over the open drawer. Her 
slim figure in its clinging dress of faded cassimere had a ghost¬ 
ly look in the darkness, and the flickering candle seemed to 
point mockingly to the silver threads that gleamed amid her 
dark tresses. Slowly her trembling fingers drew from the 
farthest corner of the drawer a small wooden box. Closing 
the drawer, she dropped into a chair, and lifting the cover of 
the box, spread its contents in her lap. From a folded bit of 
paper she took a faded rosebud and a five-leaf clover, and 
gazing thoughtfully at them a moment, carefully replaced 
them in the box. A small silver ring, which she tried in vain 
to push over her enlarged finger-joint, she laid beside the 
paper, then lifting a faded miniature she looked long and 
earnestly at the pictured face. 

A little sigh escaped her as the laughing eyes and smiling 
lips of the boyish face looked into her own, and softly she 
placed it beside the others. A long envelope, yellow and time- 
stained, lay in the bottom of the box, and Fidelia’s fingers 
quivered as she drew from it a folded sheet of paper. It was 
a valentine, old-fashioned and quaint, with its picture of two 
hearts pierced with Cupid’s arrow, and a few written verses 
beneath. Passionate devotion and undying love were ex¬ 
pressed in the crude lines, that to Fidelia’s tender eyes, seemed 
perfect in their construction. At the bottom of the page was 
the date—twenty years back. 

Poor Fidelia! for twenty long years her one romance had 
been but a dream of the past; yet each year, as the fourteenth 
of February drew near, it became a dream of intense vividness. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


19 


With the rounding out of each twelve months, she yielded her¬ 
self up to retrospection, and lived again the romance of her 
girlhood days. 

Vividly it all came back to her, and out from the shadows 
of the darkening room, came the form of her boyish lover. 
Merry-hearted, happy-go-lucky David Warren, whose sunny 
disposition won for him the smiles of all the country maidens, 
made him the pet of all the mothers, but alas! brought him 
the distrust of many of the sterner sex. In his careless, affec¬ 
tionate way, he had singled out Fidelia Thompson, then a rosy- 
cheeked, brown-eyed lass of eighteen, as his sweetheart. 

At husking frolics, apple bees and quilting parties she was 
his chosen partner, and her tender heart soon learned its les¬ 
son of love. Their plighted vows were exchanged and sealed 
by the silver ring, which Fidelia had worn, till time and labor 
had made the slender finger too large for the tiny circle. 
Trustingly she yielded up her whole heart to his keeping, 
never doubting the faithfulness of his love, and for a time life 
was very bright to the simple-hearted girl. Then, like most 
boys of twenty-one, David grew tired of his father’s farm, and 
longed to see the world, and seek adventures afar from his 
native place. 

Ah, how vividly the memory of their parting came back to 
Fidelia, as she sat there in the darkness. David’s words of 
love and vows of faithfulness, his promise of a speedy return 
to claim his bride, seemed whispered once more in her ear. 
Glowing visions of the wonderful things he would see and do, 
while seeking the fortune he was so sure of winning, returned 
to mock her. Yet, as if the shadow of all these weary years 
of waiting had already fallen upon her, Fidelia’s heart was 
heavy and cold with a desperate fear, as she gave him her fare¬ 
well kiss. 

“Wait for me, dearest,” said David, his own heart wrung 
by his sweetheart’s bitter tears, and with a loving woman’s un¬ 
questioning trust, Fidelia promised. The February snows 
were piled high around the old homestead, when the fever of 
restlessness drove David Warren from his native place. At 



20 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


their trysting place, beneath the branches of a huge oak-tree, 
that in summer was clothed in leaves of darkest green, and in 
winter draped in spotless white, they parted. It was the eve 
of St. Valentine, and with a boyish blush, David handed Fide¬ 
lia the valentine as a parting gift and the reminder of his af¬ 
fection. And that was all. The days came, and the days 
went, with winter snows and summer flowers, but no word 
ever came to Fidelia from her absent lover. Twenty years of 
weary heartache. Twenty years of silent struggle to forget, 
and he came not. 

The candle died out and the room lay in darkness, but the 
motionless figure in the old armchair moved not. 

“Aunt Fidelia, called a sweet, girlish voice up the cham¬ 
ber-stairs, “mother wants to know what you are doing so long 

up there in the cold? She says for you to come down this 
minute. ’ ’ 

“With a sudden start the woman arose to her feet, and 
fumbling about in the dark, put away the little box and locked 
the bureau drawer. The warm air from the log fire in the 
open giate rushed over her as she stepped into the room, and 
she bent over it with a shiver. Her sister Jane glanced sharp¬ 
ly at her pale face and bent figure. 

“I do wish, Fidelia, you had more sense. The idea of your 
staying up chamber till you are all of a shake and a shiver. 
I aint got no patience with you,” said she crossly. 

Fidelia said nothing, but crouched a little nearer the fire. 
Her niece Bessie, threw a worsted cape softly over her aunt’s 
shoulders, and was rewarded by a faint smile. Presently, 
Fidelia arose, and moving across the room took from its peg 
a heavy woolen shawl, and wrapped it closely about her. Then 
twisting, a big cloud of crimson wool around her head she 
passed silently out of the house. Bessie Robinson looked wist¬ 
fully after her aunt for a moment, then turning to her mother 
said anxiously: 

“What is the matter with aunt Fidelia, mother?” 

Mrs. Robinson frowned impatiently before answering. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


21 


“She is afflicted with a disease called faithfulness,” said she, 
dryly. 

“What do you mean, mother?” 

“Oh, never mind, Bessie, you wouldn’t understand if I told 
you,” said her mother hastily. 

“If you mean anything about aunt Fidelia’s love story, I 
know all about it, mother. Every one in the village is talking 
about poor auntie, and calling her a lovesick old maid, and I 
think it ’s a shame, ’ ’ cried Bessie indignantly, for she loved her 
aunt very dearly. 

“I do wish folks would mind their own business,” said her 
mother, a little ashamed of her own speech. “Your aunt Fi¬ 
delia is as smart as any woman need be, only her trouble when 
she was young has given her^ queer notions.” 

“She was about my age wasn’t she, mother, when—when 
she lost her lover?” asked Bessie, blushing a little. 

“She was just eighteen when David Warren left the place,” 
answered her mother, rather curtly. 

“And she never heard from him again?” questioned Bessie. 

“Not a word,” said her mother, shortly. 

Bessie said no more, but her eyes grew earnest, and the color 
deepened in her cheeks as she bent over her sewing. The ten¬ 
der secret in her own girlish heart had awakened in Bessie a 
new interest in aunt Fidelia’s love story. 

A throb of pity smote her as she thought of her aunt’s 
silent sorrow all those weary years. What if she, too, were 
called upon to suffer and endure; could she hold as faithful to 
one love? A steady fire burned in the girl’s eyes, and her 
lips curved into a smile, as her heart answered quickly her 
silent question. Be it one year or twenty, she, too, would hold 
true to her promise, and wait for love’s fulfilment. 

The sound of sleigh-bells broke the stillness, a door slammed, 
and Bessie’s brother Joe stamped noisily into the room. 

“Where is aunt Fidelia?” he asked, glancing hastily about. 

“I don’t know. She went out a short time ago and hasn’t 
come in,” answered his mother, without looking up. 

“Then it must have been she that I saw standing under the 



22 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


oak-tree at the corner of the lane. Thought it was a ghost, 
and old Bill nearly jumped out of his skin with fright, and 
threw me into a snow-bank,” said Joe, crossly. “What’s the 
matter with aunt Fidelia?” he continued roughly, ”1 called 
out to her, but she never answered nor moved, but stood there 
like a Stoughton bottle gazing at the moon.” 

“Hush! my son,” said Mrs. Robinson, looking at Joe, sternly, 
< * don’t let me hear you speak of your poor aunt so disrespect¬ 
fully; she is peculiar, I know, but it is trouble that has made 
her so, and you must try and have more charity for her.” 

“Oh, hang it all, mother,” cried Joe, a little ashamed. “I 
think as much of auntie as any of you, but I do wish she 
wouldn’t act so thundering queer,” and he walked out of the 
room, closing the door with a bang. Suddenly opening it 
again he tossed an envelope into his sister’s lap, saying, 
“Here’s a valentine for you, Bess; came near forgetting it. 
Oh, by the way, Phil Morgan has gone out West. Had a 
chance to go into the lumber business and make his pile. So 
I guess, Bess, you’ll have to learn patience from aunt Fidelia’s 
school,” and Joe laughed coarsely as he stamped out of the 
house. 

# Bessie’s cold fingers closed over the envelope in her hand 
tightly, as she listened to her brother’s words. Gone! Philip 
gone without one word to her; what could it mean? A deadly 
faintness swept over her, and with a desperate effort she arose 
from her chair and left the room. 

Mrs. Robinson dropped her work into her lap with a gesture 
of despair. “Another disappointed love affair to deal with,” 
she muttered to herself. “May Heaven grant me patience.” 


Twelve months have come and gone, and the tale of their 
joys and sorrows is a thing of the past. But few changes have 
come to the inmates of the old homestead, where Fidelia 
Thompson, spinster, and her niece, Bessie, are still waiting for 
the fulfilment, of their tender hopes. To Bessie, however, the 
test of unrequitted affection had not been required of her young 
heart, for every week there was placed in her hands a bulky 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


23 


letter with a Western postmark. Philip Morgan was true to 
his country sweetheart, and while rapidly making his “pile” 
in a Western town, w'as eagerly looking forward to the time 
when he could bring Bessie out to share his prosperity. Aunt 
Fidelia still went about her daily duties in her sister’s family, 
with the same patient face of silent endurance, but as the 
fourteenth of February drew near, the old restlessness took 
possession of her. 

Once more in the dim quiet of her own chamber, she lived 
again the story of her love. Once more she took with tender 
fingers, the tokens of affection from the little box, and gazed 
at them with loving eyes. Once more, wrapped in the heavy 
shawl and worsted cape, she slipped away from the warm fire¬ 
side out into the chill night air and standing beneath the 
branches of the old oak-tree, lived over again the parting with 
her lover. It was all very touching and pathetic to Bessie’s 
tender eyes, filled as they were with the glamor of her own hap¬ 
py love, but her practical mother viewed it in a different light. 
With a silent sniff she watched her sister make her prepara¬ 
tions to go out, and as the door closed, her eyes met those of 
her son Joe. 

“Mother, I wish that I could do something to stop aunt Fi¬ 
delia’s foolishness,” said he, impatiently throwing down the 
paper he had been reading. 

“So do I, Joe,” answered his mother with a sigh, “for I’m 
heartily sick of such actions.” 

Joe gazed into the fire a moment thoughtfully, then rising 
he pulled on his greatcoat, and taking his cap in his hand 
opened the door. 

“I’m going to keep an eye on her, anyway,” said he, “for 
I don’t think it is safe for her to go meandering off alone in 
the dark.” 

“Well, Joe, don’t frighten her by coming up too suddenly,” 
said his mother, watching him anxiously. 

“Humph!” muttered Joe, as he closed the door, “I’m blessed 
if I don’t think a good scare would cure her from prowling 
around that old tree, anyhow.” 



24 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


With his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets and 
whistling softly to himself, Joe walked slowly down the coun¬ 
try road. The snow lay white and glistening in the moonlight, 
and covered field and lane with a silvery crust. Millions of 
brilliant stars shone in the blue winter sky, and the stillness 
of night brooded over all. An unusual feeling of tenderness 
for his aunt Fidelia crept into Joe’s honest heart in spite of 
his rough words. A tiny wound from Cupid’s dart had begun 
to rankle in his own boyish breast, and at this very moment 
his fingers touched a square envelope, containing a gay valen¬ 
tine, where Cupid’s darts and pierced hearts were mingled 
gorgeously together. Its destination was a secret from all 
save bashful Joe, but if the glowing lines written there were 
the echo of Joe’s real feelings, Cupid’s arrow had done its 
work well. So, with feelings of unconfessed sympathy min¬ 
gled with his scorn for his aunt’s strange behavior, he hastened 
his footsteps. 

Fidelia Thompson’s slight figure stood leaning silently 
against the great brown trunk of the old tree, and her face 
looked pale and cold in the moonlight. Poor Joe, now that he 
was within speaking distance of his aunt, he knew not how to 
approach her, and stepping behind a tree he watched her silent¬ 
ly. Five minutes passed slowly, and with a desperate effort, 
Joe was about to speak, when the sound of bells fell on his 
ear. Waiting until the sleigh should pass, he kept his place 
behind the tree and his eyes on his unprotected aunt. Strange¬ 
ly enough, the sleigh with its single occupant did not pass, but 
as it neared the old oak-tree, came to a standstill. 

Joe started quickly forward, fearing for his aunt’s safety, 
when the sound of the* man’s voice brought him to a sudden 
pause. Walking up to Fidelia’s silent figure, the stranger 
held out his hand, crying in a voice that trembled a little : 

* ‘Fidelia Thompson, is it really you, or your ghost?” 

With a swift cry of recognition at the sound of the man’s 
voice, Fidelia threw out both hands, saying: 

“Oh, David! have you come at last?” 

Silently the man drew the woman’s figure toward him. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


26 


4 * Have you been waiting for me all these long years, Fide¬ 
lia?” 

“Surely, David,” answered Fidelia, softly, “did I not give 
you my promise?” 

The man’s arms passed swiftly about her, as he said in a 
husky voice: 

“May God forgive me, Fidelia.” 

“As I do,” said she tenderly, and the two faces met in the 
moonlight. 

Joe kept trying to swallow a big lump in his throat, as he 
stole softly homeward with his wonderful news. Bursting 
open the door he told his astonished mother and sister of what 
he had seen, and together they awaited further developments 
in this strange love story. Soon the merry sleigh bells sounded 
nearer, and nearer, and ceased with a gay peal at the door. 
Leaning on the arm of a man, who, in spite of his bushy beard 
and frost bitten hair, Jane recognized as David Warren, Fi¬ 
delia walked slowly into the room. With flushed cheeks and 
shining eyes she said quietly: 

“Sister Jane, David has come home; will you not give him 
a w r elcome for my sake?” 

Smothering the resentment which it was but natural that 
she should feel, Jane held out her hand. 

“You have been a long time in coming,” she could not resist 
saying, as she shook hands rather coldly. With the sunny 
smile that in those olden days had never failed to win its way 
to every woman’s heart, David answered quickly: 

“I have made my peace with Fidelia, who has the most to 
forgive, sister Jane; will you not also forget the past and be 
friends?” and Jane, sincerely glad in her sister’s happiness, 
smiled her forgiveness. 

A few weeks later, the old homestead was the scene of a 
double wedding, when Fidelia Thompson and Bessie Robinson 
took upon themselves the vows of matrimony. Joe watched 
his aunt’s face wonderingly; so much younger and fairer had 
it grown since the return of her lover, and the ending of her 
long waiting, while Bessie looked like a full-blown rose of 



26 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


blushing happiness. A big sigh swelled Joe’s youthful heart, 
that was growing as wax beneath the glance of two bright 
eyes, and he looked with fierce envy upon the happy grooms¬ 
men. Ah, Joe, have patience, and your turn will surely come. 


COMPENSATION. 


Patient working, patient waiting, 

Brings at last its own reward, 

Earnest striving, ever making 
Right the master, right your lord. 

Ever looking upward, trying 
To attain some lofty height, 

Waste no time in idle sighing, 

Tears but dim the clearest sight. 

Cheerfully each duty doing, 

As they come from day to day, 

Leaving naught for future rueing, 

Some time sure you’ll have your pay. 

Make the most of pleasures fleeting, 

Let their memory cheer your way, 
And, each sorrow bravely meeting, 

When the hours are darkest, pray. 

And your Heavenly Father hearing, 

For He heeds the sparrows’ fall, 

And when we His anger fearing, 

He will surely hear our call. 

And some way or patient working, 

He will compensation make, 

In each trial we’ll find lurking, 

Seeds that blossom e’en though late. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


27 


TEMPERANCE’S THANKSGIVING 

TURKEY. 


“I tell you, Temperance, I aint a-goin’ to make no Thanks¬ 
givin’ this year; times is too hard,” and Silas Holbrook drop¬ 
ped an armful of wood into the empty woodbox, and slammed 
down the cover. 

“Hard times aint troubled you much, Si Holbrook, and you 
know it,” answered Temperance, with some heat. “Ye never 
had better luck with the crops than you ’ve had this year, 
and ye made a good five hundred clear on that south acre lot 
ye sold ’Squire Brown.” 

A gleam of satisfaction shone in Si’s small black eyes at the 
mention of his shrewd bargain, but his thin lips still kept 
their determined curve as he answered quickly, 

“S’pose I did, s’pose I did, ’taint no reason we should ask 
a lot of folks here to eat it all up, is it?” 

“For shame, Silas,” answered his wife, “it’s yer own chil¬ 
dren that’s cornin’ to spend Thanksgivin’ with ye. Seems to 
me ye’re growin’ mighty near in yer old age.” 

“Near or not, Temperance, I’m sot about not makin’ Thanks¬ 
givin’ this year. If the children must come home you can 
feed ’em on corned beef and cabbage, it’s what they was 
brought up on, and they ought to be thankful to get it.” 

“And half a dozen fat turkeys in yer own barnyard,” an¬ 
swered Temperance, dryly. 

“Them turkeys is all spoke for down to Bixby’s store, and 
there won’t none on ’em be eat in this house Thanksgivin’ 
day,” said Silas, ramming the tobacco into his old cob pipe 
and puffing away savagely. Temperance looked at her hus¬ 
band in silence a moment while a feeling of bitterness rose up 
in her heart. 




28 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“You know, Silas,” said slie, after a time, “that Lucy never 
did like corned beef and cabbage, and as for givin’ it to 'em 
for Thanksgivin’ I aint a goin’ to do it.” 

' “Give 'em codfish, then,” snapped Si, crossly, “when I 
was a boy I was mighty glad to get codfish once in a while.” 

“How you do talk, Si Holbrook! Any one would think you 
was poor as a church mouse instead of bein’ the most fore¬ 
handed of anyone in these parts,” answered his wife, bitterly. 

“Well, well, Temperance, do stop harpin’ on that string. 
S’pose I be forehanded, 'taint no excuse for extravagant livin’, 
so don’t pester me any more about it, for I don’t make no 
Thanksgivin’ this year,” and the old man took his faded cap 
from its nail and pulling it on over his gray head with a de¬ 
termined air, marched out of the house. 

Long years of hard work and self denial had left its trace 
on them both, but while Temperance had worked with the 
hope of ease and comfort in their old age, the habit of saving 
had so grown on Silas that the spending of a penny for any- 
thing but absolute necessities seemed a crime. For miles 
around there was no more prosperous farm than Silas Hol¬ 
brook’s, and the sum of money in the village savings banks 
had grown to a figure little dreamed of by anyone save the 
shrewd farmer himself. Two children, a son and daughter, 
md grown up and made homes for themselves, and little ones 
called him “grandpa,” yet as the years went by the old man’s 

heart seemed to harden toward his own flesh, and his one 
object in life was gain. 


Only a few days now before Thanksgiving, and Temperance 
olbrook moved about the house with a silent, preoccupied 
manner The long shelves in the roomy pantry creaked be¬ 
neath the weight of good things her skilful hands had pre¬ 
pared for the home-coming of her children. Mince pies with 
a -y crusts that swelled with juicy richness; golden-hued 
pumpkin pies that looked like great moons; spicy apple and 
ivory custard all were there. Plum pudding and cranberry 
tarts stood side by side with spiced currants and home-made 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


29 


pickles. Well might any housewife feel proud of such a dis¬ 
play, yet Temperance gazed at the hoard of good things with 
a discontented look on her face. 

“What does it all amount to ’thout a turkey?” she mut¬ 
tered to herself. “Dear me, who ’d ’a’ thought Si Holbrook 
would ever grow’d to be sich a stingy old man! So Bixby ’s 
spoke for all the turkeys, has he, and I a-fatten’ the speckled 
one ’specially for the children’s Thanksgivin’,” and Tem¬ 
perance sighed. Suddenly a flash of determination lit up her 
face, and with a muttered “I ’ll do it,” she closed the pantry 
door. 

As it happened, there was no one in the village market save 
the jolly butcher himself, when Temperance drove up, and 
hitching her team, w r alked into the store. 

“Good mornin’, Mis’ Holbrook, what can I do for you to¬ 
day?” said Bixby, coming forward. 

“Well, I ’ll take a small piece of corned beef, I guess,” an¬ 
swered Temperance, looking a little confused, then gathering 
up her courage, she added, “and I ’d like a few words with 
you in private, Mr. Bixby. ’ ’ 

“Sartain, sartain, Mis’ Holbrook, jest’s private as ye like. 
Aint no one ’round but dead truck, and that won’t tell no 
tales, ye know,” laughed Bixby, waving his hand towards the 
great white hogs and quarters of beef that lay on the counters. 
Temperance’s wrinkled cheeks flushed a little as she bent for¬ 
ward and whispered in the man’s ear. Bixby looked at her 
a moment in surprise and then burst into a loud laugh. 

“Ha, ha, Mis’ Holbrook, aint you cute? All right, I- ’ll ’tend 
to it, no mistake. Under the wing, you say, ha, ha!” and the 
jolly butcher laughed and chuckled to himself till long after 
Temperance had driven out of sight. 

That night Temperance lay with wide open eyes staring into 
the darkness, patiently waiting for the accustomed snore that 
would prove the depth of her husband’s slumbers. At last the 
welcome sound smote her ear, and after listening a few mo¬ 
ments to its regular rise and fall, she crept softly out of bed. 
Stealing dowm the stairs that would creak in spite of her bare 



30 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


feet and careful stepping, Temperance crossed the great kit¬ 
chen and carefully opening the pantry door, stepped inside. 

The moon streamed into the window and lay in floods of 
light along the pantry shelves, showing to great advantage 
the store of good tilings that covered them. Since morning, 
however, an addition had been made to the display of eatables, 
for on a low shelf, ranged side by side, were six fat turkeys 
all ready for the market. Peering earnestly at them and soft¬ 
ly feeling of their plumpness, Temperance came at last to the 
largest, fattest and fairest of them all, with speckled wings 
folded over a smooth, white breast. Carefully lifting one of 
its wings she made a small red cross with a piece of chalk she 
had hidden in her hand, then covering it with the wing she 
laid it back with the rest. Shaking and shivering with cold 
she retraced her steps and was soon resting quietly beside her 
husband. The next day Silas Holbrook drove up to Bixby’s 
store with his load of Thanksgiving turkeys. With a pair in 
each hand he marched into the store and throwing them down 
on the counter exclaimed: 

How is that for turkeys, Bixby? Aint that a sight to 
make your mouth water?” and his eyes twinkled shrewdly. 

“Pretty fair, Si, pretty fair,” answered the cautious but- 

chei carefully feeling them over, and looking earnestly under 
each wing. 

No sich turkeys anywhere ’round these parts and ye know 
it, Bixbv, continued Si, bringing in the rest and slapping 
them down beside the others. 

Hum, hum, so ye say, so ye say,” said Bixby, still finger¬ 
ing them over cautiously. At last he came to one which he 
looked at with serious eyes a moment, then pushing it one 
side, said solemnly, 

11 1 don’t want that one, anyway.” 

Silas looked at the man in surprise while an angry flush 
spread over his face. “What’s the matter with that turkey 
Bixby?” said he, quickly. 

“Died, didn’t it?” answered Bixby, looking sternly at 
Silas’s angry face. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


31 


“Died, you—you—of course it died after I chopped its head 
off, ’ ’ almost shrieked the irate man. 

Bixby still shook his head, solemnly eyeing the despised 
turkey the while. 

“I tell ye, Si, I wouldn’t give ye five cents a pound for that 
turkey,” said he. 

“No, by thunder, ye won’t, for ye sha’n’t have it at no 
price now,” shouted Si, wild with anger at the man’s suspi¬ 
cious manner. 

“Come, come, friend Silas, don’t get so wrathy,” said Bix¬ 
by, soothingly. “I’ll take all the rest on ’em and give ye a 

fair price for ’em, too, but that one-” and he shook his 

head again solemnly. 

Smothering his wrath as best he could Silas pocketed his 
money and seizing the rejected turkey jumped into his team 
and drove furiously homeward. 

“Temperance,” cried he, as he burst noisily into the kit¬ 
chen, “Do ye see anything the matter with that turkey?” and 
he slammed the poor fowl down on the table and glared at 
Temperance with angry eyes. 

“Why, no, Silas,” answered his wife, her lips trembling a 
little in spite of herself, “What do ye mean?” 

“Mean, woman, mean, I mean that old Bixby is either a 
fool or gone crazy,” and he flung himself out of the room with¬ 
out further explanations. Looking after him a moment Tem¬ 
perance lifted the Turkey’s wing and with a damp cloth wiped 
away the red cross, then while a smile kept twitching the cor¬ 
ners of her mouth, she went quietly about her work. 

Thanksgiving day the old farmhouse rang with the sound 
of merry voices and the patter of little feet. Bustling about 
with a complacent smile on her motherly face, Temperance 
looked after the comfort of her guests, and enjoyed to the 
fullest the presence of her children and grandchildren. 

The savory smell of roasting turkey filled the air, and as its 
fragance was wafted to her nostrils an odd smile crept around 
her mouth. Silent and glum, Silas stalked about the house, 




32 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 



taking but little notice of Temperance’s preparations for the 
Thanksgiving dinner, and shortly they were all gathered 
around the long table loaded with good things. 

Browned to a turn, juicy and tender, the plump turkey re¬ 
posed on the great pewter platter, a sight to gladden the eyes 
of the waiting guests. In the midst of the clatter of knives 
and forks and merry voices, Temperance glanced at her hus¬ 
band with innocent eyes and lifting a tender morsel of the 
turkey to her lips, said slowly, 

“I don’t see nothin’ the matter with this turkey, do you, 
Si?” 

“Humph!” answered Silas, shortly. 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


Down from the Heavens the snow-flakes fall, 
As though the angels one and all, 

From out their wings, so snowy white, 

Were dropping feathers soft and light. 

Smiling we watched them tumbling down, 
O’er city street and country town, 

Till all the earth grows pure and white, 

And dust and dirt fade out of sight. 

And, just the same, o’er cot and hall, 

The little snow-flakes gently fall, 

And cover with a mantle pure 
Dark spots that have no other cure. 

And so it is God’s love and care, 

Spreads round about us everywhere, 

O’er rich, the humble, one and all, 

His tender loves like snow-flakes fall. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


. 33 


A LEAP-YEAR ROMANCE. 


The “Hopkin’ girls,” as every one called them in Pineville, 
were two sisters living by themselves in the old homestead 
that had belonged to the family for generations. 

They were neither of them young, and both were unmar¬ 
ried. Jane, the elder, was a little past forty, while Lucretia 
had just reached her thirty-fifth year.' As is often the case 
with sisters, they were unlike as it was possible for them to 
be, both in looks and disposition. Jane was short and plump, 
with a fresh complexion, dark eyes, and smooth brown hair, 
in which an occasional gleam of white was beginning to show. 
Lucretia was more than a head taller than her sister, with a 
slight, graceful figure, a small delicate face, and light, wavy 

hair. Her gray eyes were soft and dreamy, her manners quiet 

) 

and gentle, and she possessed that rare gift, a low, sweet voice. 

Jane was of a more practical turn of mind, with brisk, ener¬ 
getic ways, a sharper glow in her dark eyes, and, when occasion 
required, a warmer speech than belonged to her gentle sister. 
Despite this difference, however, they were devotedly attached 
to each other, and each admired with the tenderest affection, 
the fine points of the other’s character. They had always lived 
in the big white house, with heavy columns in front, that stood 
beside the common in the little village of Pineville. 

The Baptist meeting-house, with his square belfry, stood 
upon the opposite side of the green, while the tall spire of the 
Methodist church pointed straight up to Heaven close beside 
it. Two stately elms stood in front of the Hopkins house like 
tall sentinels forever on guard, while an air of substantial 
prosperity surrounded it. Indeed, it was a well-known fact 
that the “Hopkin’ girls” were decidedly well-to-do, and in the 
eyes of some of the more humble villagers, were as important 
in consequence of their possessions as if they had been Astors 
or Vanderbilts. 






34 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The last of a large family, the two women were bound to¬ 
gether by the warmest ties, and both clung affectionately to 
the dear old homestead that had been their shelter from child¬ 
hood. 

Calmly and peacefully the years had flowed onward, leaving 
but one dark blot upon the white sands of their experience. 
Some ten years before Lucretia had been heartlessly jilted 
upon the eve of her wedding day. A cloud of mystery hung 
over the affair, and but few knew the real facts of the case. 
Henry Mansfield had come to Pineville with letters of recom¬ 
mendation from reliable parties, and opening a law office, he 
sought for business among the peaceful inhabitants of the tiny 
village. Clients, however, were few and far between, and had 
he not been possessed with a small competency wherewith to 
keep the wolf from the door, he would have fared but poorly. 
But he was young and hopeful, and with the strong magnet 
of Lucretia’s gentle eyes, he lingered week after week, till love 
had woven a chain that bound their hearts together. 

With a comfortable fortune of her own, Lucretia cared 
nothing for her lover’s poverty, and the wedding day was set, 
when, alas! for human hopes and expectations, Henry Mans¬ 
field disappeared, suddenly and as completely as if the earth 
had opened and swallowed him. From that time Lucretia had 
heard nothing of her false lover, and she had long since ceased 
to hope for his return; yet, woman-like, she clung to the memo¬ 
ry of her lost love, and found none other worthy to take his 
place in her heart. 

The effect of all this upon Jane proved the devotion of her 
love, for bitterly resenting the insult to her young sister, Jane 
Hopkins turned a deaf ear to many a worthy suitor for her 
own hand, preferring to dwell with Lucretia in single blessed¬ 
ness, than trust to the promise of any man. And so the years 
sped onward, and the “Hopkin’ girls” still dwelt alone in the 
big white house beside the village green, in the little town of 
Pineville. 

Spring had come, and its sweet, warm breath kissed the 
frozen earth into new life. Lovingly the sunbeams wooed the 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


35 


buds from their hiding places, and danced upon the moist 
earth till the grass shoots were forced to spring up and join 
in the mad frolic. Back from the South flocked the blue-bird 
and the robin, till the air was filled with the flutter of gay 
wings and the sound of merry piping. Over meadow and field 
Spring had flung her magic wand, and joyous life sprang up 
from every nook and corner. Windows and doors were thrown 
open to let the fragant air sweep through the farmhouse and 
village home, and housewives were deep in the mysteries of 
spring cleaning. 

Lucretia Hopkins stood in the open doorway, watching her 
sister Jane as she hurried across the green to the little Baptist 
parsonage. A faint smile lit up her pale face as she watched 
her sister’s plump form, and noticed the basket of fresh eggs 
in her hand. 

“How good and thoughtful Jane is,” said she to herself with 
a little sigh, “she never forgets the minister’s eggs, or the bag 
of cookies for polly. She’s been like a mother to the poor 
child ever since Mrs. Daniels died, and I’m sure I don’t know 
what the minister would have done without her to look after 
things. Jane is such a good woman, she ought to be a minis¬ 
ter’s wife herself.” 

Her smile deepened as these thoughts passed through her 
mind, for the Reverend John Daniels had been a widower for 
several years. A tried and trusted friend was he to the sis¬ 
ters, though but one of them belonged to his own particular 
flock. Lucretia, who sang in the choir of the Methodist church, 
was also a member of that denomination, while Jane was de¬ 
voted heart and soul to the interests of the little Baptist church 
that had been her church home from childhood. 

John Daniels was a quiet, thoughtful man of fifty, a true 
Christian and an earnest Avorker in the cause of Christ. For 
five long years he had been without a helpmeet and companion 
in his home life, and he had striven earnestly to be both father 
and mother to little Polly. Having known the Hopkins girls 
from childhood, he fully appreciated what excellent women 
they were. Lucretia he admired for her refinement and gentle 




86 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


manners and the brave spirit she had shown in bearing the 
bitter disappointment of her life’s hopes. Jane, with her 
warm generous heart, her busy hands that were ever doing 
good works, her cheerfulness and energy, seemed to him the 
embodiment of all that was most noble in woman. To tell the 
truth, John Daniels had felt for some time a warmer sentiment 
for Jane Hopkins than that of friendship. Yet knowing the 
secret resentment in her otherwise kind heart, toward all men 
for her sister’s sake, he never dreamed of asking her to share 
his home. 

Thus matters stood that beautiful spring morning, when 
Lucretia watched Jane disappear inside the parsonage door, 
and mused upon a little matchmaking scheme in her sisterly 
heart. Suddenly she saw the door of the parsonage fly open, 
and Jane came swiftly down the stairs toward her own home 
with an excited air. 

“The minister is dowm with pneumonia,” said she almost 
breathlessly as she followed her sister into the house. “He’s 
a dreadfully sick man, Lucretia, and there isn’t a soul to do a 
thing for him. That shiftless girl from the Meadows is simply 
good for nothing outside the kitchen. Doctor Green says he 
can’t find a nurse high nor low. Now if you can get along 
for a while, Lucretia, I’m just going to nurse that poor man 
myself,” and Jane hurried about the room in swift prepara¬ 
tions to carry out her plan. 

Lucretia looked at her sister with startled eyes. “Will— 
will it be quite proper, Jane ? ’ ’ asked she slowly. 

“Proper?” cried Jane, her color rising. “I’m sure I don’t 
know whether it will or not. It’s Christian, anyway, and even 
if I am an old maid, Lucretia, I hope I’ll never be so prim and 
prudish as to refuse to do a good deed to any human creature, 
man or woman.” 

“Why, Jane, you know best of course,” answered Lucretia 
in the low, soft voice that never failed to soothe Jane’s ruffled 
temper, “and it’s just like your goodness to think of it, too.” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


37 


“Well, goodness or no goodness, there isn’t any one else to 
do it as I can see, and I’m sure I’m not heathen enough to let 
the poor man die for want of proper care.” 

“But there will be a little gossip, I’m afraid,” said Lucretia 
hesitatingly, for she knew her sister’s horror of this habit of 
a small village. 

“I’ll have to stand it then,” answered Jane grimly, keeping 
on with her preparations, and Lucretia made no further ob¬ 
jections. 

As Jane had said, the minister was indeed a very sick man, 
and for days and even weeks his life wes despaired of. Faith¬ 
fully and skilfully Jane Hopkins devoted herself to the care of 
the sick man, and at last was rewarded by the sure hope of his 
recovery. Never wholly unconscious of his surroundings dur¬ 
ing these weeks of pain, John Daniels was inexpressibly com¬ 
forted by Jane’s presence; and he looked with dread toward 
the day when he must once more dwell alone. 

Little dreaming of these tender forebodings on the part of 
her friend and pastor, Jane bustled about the parsonage, dif¬ 
fusing a sense of comfort and cheerfullness long since un¬ 
known in that dreary home. In the delicious days of his 
convalescence, when buried in the depths of a big easy chair, 
he watched Jane move about the pleasant rooms and listened 
to her cheerful voice, he counted himself supremely blessed 
that even this bliss of the might-have-been was granted him. 
In these days, Lucretia often shared her sister’s duties in at¬ 
tendance upon the sick man, and kindly read and talked to 
him in the low, sweet voice that was her especial charm. Ten- 
year-old Polly was a great favorite with Lucretia, and the 
child would sit for hours leaning against her friend, and listen¬ 
ing to her gentle voice as she read to her father. One day 
while thus occupied, Jane came suddenly into the room, and 
as her eyes glanced at the pretty group a swift thought took 
possession of her. 

“What a good wife and mother Lucretia would make,” she 
thought as she watched her sister’s face, and noticed the clasp 
of her arm about Polly, “and how much John Daniels needs 




38 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


a wife. It’s a shame for him to live here alone, with no one 
to look after Polly or make his home comfortable. I don’t 
suppose he’d dare ask Lucretia though, knowing her old 
trouble, but it would be the best thing that could happen to 
her; and perhaps if he did ask her, she might, for Polly’s sake, 
consent. ’ ’ 

This idea having taken possession of Jane’s mind, she came 
to dwell upon it more and more, till it seemed a most desirable 
thing for all parties concerned. 

A little later, as Jane was sitting alone with the minister in 
his pleasant study, a strange impulse seized her, and dropping 
her usual reserve she said suddenly, 

“Don’t you think you need a wife, Mr. Daniels?” 

A swift color mounted to the minister’s face at these strange 
words, and he looked at her in surprise. 

”1 do feel very lonely at times, Miss Hopkins,” said he at 
last with a smile. 

That’s just it, you are too much alone for your own 
good,” continued Jane hurriedly, for now that the subject was 
fairly started she felt her courage growing weak. “And Polly 
needs a woman to look after her; one who will take a 
mother’s interest in the child. Please do not think me for¬ 
ward in speaking so plainly, but now that you are well enough 
for me to leave you, I feel I ought as a friend, to tell you that 
I do not think it right for you to live here alone any longer.” 

To say that Rev. John’s heart quickened its usual steady 
pace, would but lightly express the fierce throbbing that took 
possession of him. Was it possible, he thought, that this good 
woman had read his heart’s secret, and desired to help him? 
Suddenly he remembered that it was leap-year, and with this 
new thought, his head fairly whirled. Leaning forward and 
placing a trembling hand on the arm. of Jane’s chair, he said 
quickly: 

“Dear friend, can you tell me where tc seek for this good 
woman who should be my wife?” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


39 


As Jane’s eyes met his a strange sensation swept over her 
that dyed her face crimson, and shrinking back a little she 
said hurriedly: 

“Why, I think Lucretia is very fond of Polly, and of course 
we both are interested in you, Mr. Daniels. I think she— 
she—” here Jane broke down, and hastily rising, she added 
almost desperately, “I think you had better speak to her 
yourself, Mr. Daniels.” 

“And do you think she will give her consent?” asked the 
minister, a strange smile on his lips, as his eyes rested on her 
averted face. 

“I think so, at least I hope so when she knows we both 
desire it,” stammered the usually self-possessed Jane. 

John Daniels rose from his chair, and walked to the door 
with his guest, and taking her hand he said earnestly, 

“Dear friend, you have made me very happy.” 

As Jane Hopkins walked swiftly home, she could not ac¬ 
count for the strange feelings that made her wish to avoid her 
sister, and seek the privacy of her own room. Had she made 
a dreadful mistake, she thought ? Would Lucretia ever know 
that she had asked the minister to propose? and had she done 
right after all? These, and many other questions, troubled 
Jane’s kind heart, and made her glad she had no further need 
to visit the parsonage. 

A few days later, Lucretia walked across the green to the 
minister’s with her sister’s usual offering of fresh eggs. Much 
to Jane’s surprise and relief, she had suggested going in her 
place, and hoping the minister would take this opportunity to 
propose, she awaited her sister’s return with secret anxiety. 

Suddenly Lucretia came hastily into the room, and throwing 
herself into a chair covered her face. 

“Oh, Jane! what shall I do?” she cried with a sob. 

Jane looked at her in surprise. 

“What is it, Lucretia, what has happened?” 

“I—I have proposed to the minister and been refused,” said 
Lucretia with a little laugh that ended in a sob. 

“What!” cried Jane, her voice and her color both rising. 



40 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“At least he thinks I did, but I never thought of its being 
leap-year,” continued Lucretia in a choked voice. 

“Leap-year,” said Jane scornfully, “who but children take 
any stock in such fancies. For goodness sake! Lucretia, do 
explain yourself.” 

“Oh, Jane! I am so mortified, but it was you I was thinking 
of all the time, you would make such a nice minister’s wife,” 
said Lucretia still hysterical, and without looking at her sis¬ 
ter. Poor Jane grew red and then white and her heart 
throbbed painfully. 

“Lucretia, stop crying and tell me plainly what you’ve been 
saying to John Daniels,” said she, taking her sister by the 
arm and giving her a little shake. 

“I—I told him he needed a wife, and that you were very 
fond of Polly, and—and so was I, too,” here Lucretia broke 
down and began to cry. 

“Lucretia Hopkins, how dared you?” cried Jane crimson 
with anger and mortification. 

“Well, he said he knew it, and that much as he admired me 
as a friend, his heart was already given to another. He said 
that you knew all about it and would explain,” and Lucretia 
wiped her eyes and looked at her sister enquiringly. 

A cold horror swept over Jane as the real meaning of the 
minister’s words flashed through her mind. 

“John Daniels is the most conceited man I ever knew,” she 
said angrily. “But I—I was talking about you all the time.” 

“And did you offer me to him for a wife?” asked Lucretia, 
springing up excidedley. “Oh, Jane! how could you.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Lucretia,” answered Jane grimly, 
“only there is no fool like an old fool, and in this case there 
seems to be three of a kind; ’ ’ and with these words she walked 
out of the room and closed the door with a loud slam. 

For a week or more after this the sisters went about their 
daily tasks with secret feelings of anger and mortification. For 
the first time in their lives they each cherished a feeling of re¬ 
sentment towards the other, and in consequence were decidedly 
unhappy. Poor Jane felt that never again could she look John 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


41 


Daniels in the face, while Lncretia felt almost ill with her 
mingled feelings of shame and distress, as she thought of the 
minister’s absurd mistake. 

Meanwhile at the little parsonage over the way, the Rev. 
John was none too comfortable in his own mind over the 
strange behavior of the “Hopkin’ girls.” Loving Jane as he 
did he saw no harm in her seeking to open the door of his lips, 
and he longed with a lover’s impatience for returning health 
that he might go to her and make a formal proposal for her 
heart and hand. But what puzzled and disturbed him was 
Lucretia’s strange proposal which he had tried to avert by 
telling her of his attachment to Jane. Could it be that the 
poor girl’s mind was slightly unhinged by her own heart 
trouble? So the days sped along, and the three actors in this 
comedy of errors grew more and more unhappy as time passed. 

At last there came a day when John Daniels walked across 
the green to the Hopkins place, and lifting the great brass 
knocker he let it fall with a sound that rang loudly through 
the old house. The sisters had seen the minister’s approach 
with much embarrassment, and neither of them made the 
slightest motion toward waiting upon their guest. Ushered 
into the old-fashioned parlor by the little maid-of-all-work, 
John Daniels waited the coming of his beloved Jane with im¬ 
patience. Tenderly and hopefully he dwelt upon the thought 
of this interview, and his heart beat fast with anticipation. 

Suddenly the door opened and he turned toward it joyfully, 
only to receive this message from the sisters, 

“Not at home.” 

The sun had gone into a cloud and the air grew chill, as 
the minister walked slowly back to the parsonage. He felt 
both hurt and bewildered at the turn affairs had taken, and he 
began to think he had been mistaken in Jane’s feelings after 
all. Shutting himself in his study, he pondered long upon the 
subject, deciding at last that the problem of a woman’s moods 
was past solving. 

The following Sabbath Jane Hopkins was torn with the con¬ 
flict between duty and inclination. For years a regular atten- 



42 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


dant at the little Baptist church, she never allowed anything 
to keep her away from a service. Yet how could she sit and 
listen to her pastor knowing what he must think of her con¬ 
duct, and how could she meet his eye without shrinking in 
shame and confusion. 

Duty prevailed, however, and Jane sat in her accustomed 
place in the meeting-house, when John Daniels rose in the pul¬ 
pit and began the service. With an effort Jane lifted her eyes, 
and was startled at the pallor of his face. How ill he looks, 
she thought anxiously, and her kind heart grew soft with pity 
for his weakness. 

It was an earnest and eloquent sermon that John Daniels 
preached to his congregation that first Sabbath after his ill¬ 
ness; yet as he talked many of his people saw with what an 
effort the words came, and many eyes grew anxious as they 
watched his pale face. Suddenly his voice ceased, and with¬ 
out a warning he fell forward upon his face. In an instant 
confusion reigned in the little church, but Jane Hopkins el¬ 
bowed her way fiercely through the crowd till she reached the 
side of the fainting man. Pushing aside the many helping 
hands, and heedless of the curious glances cast at her, she 
ministered to the comfort of the sick man with the air of one 
who had the right. 

At last Jane’s heart had spoken, and she knew, though with 
an agony of shame and despair, that she loved this man with a 
love that was stronger than herself. 

So it came about that when John Daniels opened his eyes, 
he looked straight into Jane’s face, glorified with tender com¬ 
passion and the light of a great love. 

His heart rose to his lips at the sight, and he whispered as 
she bent over him: 

“Will you be my wife, Jane?” 

A crimson tide swept over Jane’s face and her eyes filled 
with tears as she answered softly: 

“Hush! John.” 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


43 


ON EASTER MORNING. 


It was Easter Sunday and the little Episcopal Church in the 

village of A- was thronged with worshippers. The rich 

notes of the organ rose and fell upon the flower-laden air, 
blending harmoniously with the sweet voices of the choir. 
Light hearts seemed reflected in the happy faces lifted to hear 
that old, old story of the rising of our Saviour. Bright faces, 
hopeful thoughts, gladsome hearts made swift response, till 
they all with one glad voice loudly sang, “Rejoice! Rejoice!” 

Out into the fresh spring sunshine the people passed with 
pleasant greetings one to another. Loudly the birds sang in 
the budding treetops, while the sunbeams danced among the 
tender green of the shooting grass blades. A youth and maiden 
walked slowly homeward through the village street. The light 
of a first tender passion illumined their faces. 

“I have made my choice, Ruth,” said Nelson Dudley at last. 
“I’m going to study for the ministry.” 

“Yes,” answered Ruth gravely, lifting her blue eyes to her 
lover’s face. “I know, and I am glad.” 

“But, Ruth, I must go away, perhaps for several years,” 
said Nelson, a little sadly. 

“We are young, Nelson, and we can wait,” said Ruth softly, 
a faint color rising to her cheeks. 

“And will you, Ruth?” asked he, an anxious note in his 
voice. 

“Always,” answered the girl earnestly. 

So these two parted and went their separate ways, each car¬ 
rying a heart filled with youthful love, holy purposes and 
noble desires. 

Into the little village where dwelt Ruth Partridge there came 
that foul disease called the gold fever. For long years Jason 
Partridge had been a prosperous and successful farmer; in a 






44 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


small way, to be sure, yet having a rich reward for each 
humble effort he was considered a lucky man by friends and 
neighbors. 

There had come to him the sudden desire for great riches; 
to seek for himself in the far West the yellow gold that would 
satisfy every earthly ambition. Despite the forebodings of 
some and the counsel of many, he sold his homestead, gathered 
together his household goods, and with his wife and daughter 
started on that long and perilous journey. To tell the story of 
that awful time would be but to repeat the tragic tale so often 
read in the newspapers of that date of the fate of the emigrant. 
Jason Partridge and his wife never reached the haven of their 
hopes. Stricken with fever brought on by exposure and fati¬ 
gue, they left their weary bodies asleep on the desert plains, 
there to rest till that last great Easter day of the future. Poor, 
broken-hearted Ruth struggled onward, till civilization was 
reached in a small Western town. 

Eight years have come and gone, leaving the trail of many 
changes in the lives of Nelson Dudley and Ruth Partridge. 

Swept along by the tide of prosperity, Nelson was rapidly 
gaining the goal of his ambitions. As rector of an influential 
church in an Eastern city, the hopes of his youth bid fair to 
be realized. 

Endowed with unusual intellectual gifts and with an earn¬ 
est desire to always stand as the image of his Maker, he was 
admired and beloved by all his people. The sad news of the 
tragic fate which had befallen Jason Partridge and his family 
had been the one great sorrow of his youth. To lose forever 
the sweet hope of calling Ruth his wife for a time seemed to 
paralyze his intellect and dull his ambition. With a mighty 
effort he at last buried his grief, comforted by the sure hope 
of a meeting with his beloved in the great beyond. How true 
it is that the circumstances in which one is placed have a 
strong influence over the important issues of our lives. 

With the passing years the memory of his love for Ruth 
became a memory only. Sweet and holy, yet strangely remote, 
as of some fond dream of another existence. To some minds 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


45 


this power of putting away our sorrows seems but the forget¬ 
fulness of a shallow nature. Yet it is the wisest gift of an ever 
wise Father to his earthly children. For how can life’s duties 
be well performed if the human heart forever grieves? 

Into Nelson’s life had come another love, another sweet in¬ 
fluence, womanly and pure. In the hour of his manhood’s 
time and his wordly success he was to find a true helpmeet in 
Constance Browning, and the coming Easter would find them 
man and wife. 

In a large Western city the life of Ruth Partridge was not 
unlike thousands of other girls, who, poor, friendless and alone, 
struggle daily for mere existence. Behind the counter of a 
large dry goods emporium she toiled early and late. Always 
of a delicate constitution, the fearful exposure of that journey 
across the plains had left its mark upon her frail body. With 
a will power stronger than her physical nature, she performed 
her daily tasks, yet knowing full well her failing strength. 
With bitter heartache and weary longing had she waited for 
some word from her youthful lover. Once, twice, even three 
times, had she written to her old home for news of Nelson 
Dudley—letters which, alas, never reached their destination. 
Yet the hope which ever dwells in the heart of woman was 
strong within her, and she still waited, watched and prayed. 

Once there had come to Ruth Partridge the offer of a good 
man’s love, the shelter of his home, the protection of an 
honored name. But for Ruth, to love once was to love for all 
time, and the temptation to marry for a home never came to 
her. 

The early springtime had come and all nature was awaken¬ 
ing from her winter’s sleep. To Ruth this swift change from the 
bracing air of winter to the mild, enervating warmth of spring 
was like the giving way of some prop which upheld her. A 
sudden faintness had overtaken her while at her work. The 
busy proprietor of the store had given her a dismissal and 
another girl had taken her place. 

“A long rest is what you need,” said the physician, and 
Ruth smiled sadly as she thought of her small hoard of sav- 



46 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


mgs. Suddenly the thought of that little country village, 
where she had passed her childhood, came to her like a vision. 
An overwhelming desire took possession of her to once more 
visit its haunts, to see once more her old home. With feverish 
haste she gathered together her few belongings, and nerving 
herself for the journey she turned her face eastward. 

Again it is Easter Sunday. Once more the church bells 
ring out the joyful new r s that Christ our Lord is risen, is risen 
today. Once more the earth unlocks her tomb and the spirit 
of spring comes forth to gladden our hearts. The bluebird 
and the robbin sing in the treetops and the voices of the air 
join in their melody. 

The aristocratic congregation at St. Mark’s pass decorously 
to their seats with a subdued rustle of new spring gowns. Dain¬ 
ty perfumes mingle their odor with the sweet scent of the 
lilies about the altar. Golden sunshine streams through the 
painted windows and illumines the face of the Rev. Nelson 
Dudley as he stands in his white robes before his people. A 
feeling of inexpressible joy and thanksgiving fills his heart as 
he turns the leaves of his prayer book. Without lifting his 
eyes, he is yet conscious of the tender gaze of his young wife 
sitting in the pew opposite. Surely the Lord has favored his 
servant, inasmuch that the lines of his life have fallen in 
pleasant places. His heart is filled with gratitude, and it is 
with an effort that he reads the opening words of the service 
in his usual clear voice. 

As the congregation rise, a slight, black-robed figure walks 
slowly into a pew near the open door and silently bows her 
head. At the first sound of the minister’s voice she looks up 
with a startled glance, and the color rushes in a wild flood to 
her pale face. All through the service she listens with eager 
attention. When the people press forward to the chancel to 
partake of the holy communion, she patiently waits her turn. 
Then ’with slow, uncertain footsteps she moves, unnoticed, to 
the altar. Kneeling upon the cushion with head bowed against 
the chancel rail, a great peace falls upon the heart of this 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


47 


woman. All the longing, the heartache, the disappointment 
of earthly hopes are swept away, and a calm that is not of 
earth falls upon her tired spirit. 

“Father in heaven, I thank thee,” she whispers faintly. 

One by one the kneeling figures rise and go away, yet still 
that black-robed form moves not. The Rev. Nelson Dudley 
pauses before her, repeating the words of his holy office, then 
passes on. 

Once more he stands beside her and softly touches the still 
form with his slender finger. He again repeats those sacred 
words, but the woman makes no response. 

A vague feeling of alarm stirs him. Bending over her he 
gently lifts the bowed head, and a ray of sunshine falls softly 
upon the cold, white face of Ruth Partridge. 


A PRAYER. 


I am not worthy, Lord: help thou thy child 
To stem the current of life’s passions wild! 

From worldly dross and every vain desire 
Lift thou mine eyes, and purer thoughts inspire! 

I am so w r eak the flesh will not obey, 

E’en though my spirit, Lord, is thine alway; 

But, Avhile temptations throng on every side, 

And pleasure’s road is smooth and broad and wide, 
The human soul doth long for quiet sleep, 

And in its languorous dreams the senses steep, 

But, oh, my Father, I have work to do, 

And to its motive let my soul be true, 

Nor swerve aside from purpose ever high, 

But, toiling upward, unto thee draw nigh! 





48 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


JERUSHA’S “RISIN’ UP ” 


“The Fourth o’ July don’t come but once a year, Jerusha, 
an’ ye don’t orter bregrudge a man the privilege o’ cele¬ 
bratin’,” said Abel Balcome, setting down the pail of water 
he had just brought in for his wife. 

“ ’Taint that, Abel, ye know it aint,” answered Jerusha; 
“it’s the way ye have o’doin ori’t, I object to. This trapsin’ 
down to the village with a parcel o’ menfolks, a-spendin’ all 
yer savin’s an’ stayin’ out till midnight, don’t seem to me a 
Christian way o’ celebratin’ the Nation’s Independence.” 

“Sho! Jerusha, that’s jest a woman’s way o’ lookin’ on’t,” 
answered Abel, fanning himself with his big straw hat. “How 
on ’arth would a man celebrate ef he didn’t go to the village?” 

“Coin’ to the village aint the worst on ’t,” said his wife, 
looking at him a little sternly. “It’s the way the hull lot on 
ye come home. Seems to me ye must have worked dreadful 
hard last Fourth a-celebratin’ to get so tired as to fall asleep 
on the road. Ef Si Holbrook’s old white mare hadn’t ’a’ 
knowed the way home as well as any human, Si never ’d ’a 
got there, for he was sound asleep an’ a-snoarin’ when the 
mare walked into the dooryard, an’ Temperance had to put 
her up an’ throw a dipper o’ water over Si to wake him. Then 
Caleb Brown must ’a’ been putty far gone to ha’ tried to light 
his pipe bottom-side-up, an’ let the hot ashes fall on to his best 
pants till they burned a hole the size o’ a silver dollar. His 
wife served him jest right a-puttin’ in a red patch into those 
blue trousers, an’ a-makin’ of him wear ’em to meetin’. Keeps 
him sort o’ reminded o’ his failin’s.” 

“Well, well, Jerusha, accidents will happen, ye know,” said 
Abel growing red and struggling with an irrepressible grin at 
certain recollections. “But ye haint no call to find fault with 
me ’cos o’ my neighbors’ shortcomin’s,” added he. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


49 


Jerusha Balcome straightened from the tub of clothes over 
which she was bending, and looked at her husband a moment 
in silence. 

“Seems to me there aint a great sight o’ difference ’tween 
a man who goes to sleep in his wagon, or lights his pipe up¬ 
side-down, an’ a man as forgets whether he lives in a house or 
a barn an’ goes to sleep in a haymow till his wife wakes him 
up. I guess it all comes from the same kind o’ complaint,” 
said she, dryly. 

Abel looked confused but said nothing. 

“Ef any o’ you.menfoiks ever thought o’ takin’ your wives 
along to help celebrate, there’d be more sense in ye’re goin’; 
but somehow there alius seems to be plenty o ’ reasons why the 
women-folks should stay to home,” continued Jerusha, once 
more plunging her arms into her tub and wringing out a sheet 
vigorously. 

“Well, home ’s the place for womenfolks mostly, aint it?” 
said Abel, recovering himself as his wife branched off from a 
too personal application of her subject. 

“Sometimes ’t is an’ sometimes ’t isn’t,” said Jerusha. “I- 
guess a woman likes a change once in a while as well’s a man. 
An’ I guess a woman is jest as much interested in the Day o’ 
Independence an’ would like to celebrate it, as any o’ you 
menf oiks. I tell you what, Abel Balcome, there’s going to be 
a risin’ up o’ the women one o’ these days.” 

Abel’s honest blue eyes rounded out and his under jaw 
drooped at these words from his usually patient wife. 

“Why, Jerusha, ye aint got to be on o’ them woman’s rights 
women, have ye?” he asked, almost meekly. 

“Women have rights, haint they?” answered his wife, 
evasively, “an’ the time ’s a-comin’ when they’re a-goin to use 
’em, too. 

An uncomfortable silence followed this speech, while Jerus¬ 
ha’s clothes-basket accumulated a pile of snowy garments, and 
Abel puttered away at the hoe he was mending. The warm 
sunshine flooded the great kitchen; the birds sang loudly in 
the appletree by the open window, and the bees hummed 



50 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


joyously in the fragrant air. All nature was glorified by the 
warm breath of summer. A sweet, girlish voice, singing a 
gay tune, sounded near the open window', and a bright face 
was thrust inside. 

“Clothes ready to hang out, aunt Jerusha?” called the voice. 

“Yes, Polly,” answered Jerusha, glancing up with a smile, 
“but ye don’t ought to heft that great basket all alone. Here, 
Abel, jest you take hold on’t, too.” 

“Certain, certain,” said Abel dropping his hoe to do his 
■wife’s bidding. But with a swift motion, Polly lifted the 
basket in her strong arms, and stepped outside the door. 

“Well, I vum! ef Polly haint got considerable muscle for a 
city girl, I ’ll give up!” said Abel, watching the girl’s easy 
motions admiringly. 

“Gymnastics and lawn-tennis, uncle Abel,” cried Polly, 
glancing over her shoulder, while she swiftly pinned the wet 
garments to the line. 

“^ou don’t say! Well, ef them sort o’ new-fangled games 
can make a gal as strong an’ handsome as my niece Polly, I 
don’t blame the gals for playin’ on ’em,” said Abel, picking 
up his hoe and moving toward the door. 

“There, Abel, don’t go to settin’ Polly up over her looks,” 
said Jerusha. “Handsome is as handsome does, is my motto.” 

“Well, ye can’t find much fault with that part on ’t either, 
as I can see,” answered Abel, smiling good-naturedly at the 
busy girl, as he passed her on his way to the potato field. 

Jerusha Balcome’s eyes followed her husband’s, till they, 
too, rested affectionately upon the wind-tossed hair of Polly’s 
head. Pleasant, indeed, was the sight of the girlish figure 
about the old farmhouse. 

Long and lonely had been the years since their only boy had 
gone away to seek his fortune. How lonely, only the mother’s 
heart could tell, and Polly’s summer visits were bright spots 
in the lives of the old couple. 

Abel Balcome’s brother Joseph had married the widow 
Smith when Polly was about five years old. With added years 
came a large family, and Polly’s home life was consequently 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


51 


a busy one. *The proprietor of a thriving grocery business in 

the city of B-, Joseph Balcome was considered a prosperous 

man; yet the demands of an expensive family had nearly 
drained his income. The post of elder sister is not an easy 
one at best, and keenly conscious of the half tie that bound 
her to her stepfather’s household, Polly’s proud spirit had 
long yearned for freedom. With a strong artistic temperament, 
and a passionnate love for nature, the summer months spent 
at the old farm, that nestled amid such scenery as only Ver¬ 
mont can show, were delightful ones to Polly. To transfer to 
canvass even a shadow of the Great Artist’s handiwork was in¬ 
tense joy. The light and shade, the color and glow, that were 
thrown with such lavish hand over mountains, hills and val¬ 
leys, were an endless delight to her artist eyes. 

The early sunrise, that touched the sleeping earth with rosy 
hues and turned the dew r drops into sparking gems; the 
golden noon, when field and meadow, lake and brook, glowed 
with amber fire; the setting sun’s goodnight kiss, that flushed 
with crimson the twilight sky, and the looming mountain-tops, 
gray and sombre, that stand majestic through the changing 
years—all were beloved by the girl, whose soul hungered for 
beauty and its natural food. So, when the rest of the family 
hurried to some cheap seaside resort, to spend the warm 
season, Polly turned her eager eyes toward the old farm¬ 
house among the Vermont hills, and the loving welcome of 
uncle Abel and aunt Jerusha Balcome. So glad was she to get 
away from the noise and din of the city, into the sweet quiet 
of country life, that she had really forgotten the near ap¬ 
proach of our nation’s greatest holiday, the Fourth of July. 

Awake with the birds at dawn, Polly walked into the kit¬ 
chen one morning to find her uncle Abel standing in the mid¬ 
dle of the room, with a strange bewildered look on his pleas¬ 
ant face. The fireless hearth, the unset breakfast table, and 
the absence of aunt Jerusha surprised Polly into an exclama¬ 
tion of— 

11 What is the matter, uncle Abel?” 

Abel Balcome turned and looked at Polly with solemn eyes. 




52 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Polly,” said lie, slowly, and with a slight tremor in his 
voice, “yer aunt Jerusha ’s ris’ an’ gone.” 

“Gone where?” cried the astonished girl. 

“She said there’d be a risin’ up o’ the women one o’ these 
days; an’ Jerusha ’s a woman o’ her word. An’ now she’s 
gone,” continued Abel, dejectedly. 

“But where?” asked Polly, beginning to grow alarmed. 

“Well, I s’pose maybe she ’s gone down to the village to 
celebrate. She said she thought women had jest as much 
right to as the menfolks, an’ I don’t know but they have,” 
said Abel. 

“Celebrate what, uncle Abel?” said Polly, still puzzled. 

“Polly Smith!” cried Abel, a little sharply, “don’t ye know 
that this day is the glorious Fourth o’ July, when-” 

A merry peal of laughter drowned his words, as light began 
to dawn upon Polly. 

“0 uncle! I had forgotten all about the great and glorious 
Fourth, though I’m not usually so unpatriotic. But it seems 
so nice to be where it is quiet, when one lives most of the year 
in a noisy city,” said Polly, gaily. “So you think auntie has 
gone to the village to celebrate, do you? She couldn’t have 
walked, could she?” 

“The old mare ’s gone, too,” answered Abel, soberly. 

With an effort Polly restrained her laughter, though her 
eyes twinkled merrily as she took in the situation. 

“Never mind, uncle Abel; we’ll celebrate at home this year. 
But first, let us see what we can do about breakfast,” said she, 
bustling about the room and setting forth the dishes for the 
morning meal. An empty bread-plate, standing beside a 
pitcher half filled with milk, upon the table, with a bowl and 
spoon, told how Jerusha had fortified herself for the journey. 

For an hour or so Abel wandered about looking disconsolate 
and unhappy, when he, too, disappeared, and glancing down 
the country road, Polly saw his stout form walking slowly 
toward the village. 

“Poor uncle Abel! he couldn’t wait any longer,” said she. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


53 


smiling, as she watched him out of sight. Then, with a feeling 
of delightful freedom, and with no thought of fear at being 
alone so far from neighbors, she settled herself with paints and 
brushes to enjo} r herself in her own fashion. 

The village green was crowded with the inhabitants of the 
little place, and the farmers’ teams stood hitched to posts on 
the outside. From a raised platform patriotic speeches were 
being made, and strains of martial music floated on the summer 
air. The proprietors of lemonade stands were doing a thriving 
business, as were also the venders of peanuts and popcorn. 
Hot and dusty, with the perspiration pouring down his ruddy 
cheeks, Abel Balcome reached the scene of the festivity. His 
three-mile walk had been a hard pull through the hot sun, but, 
determined to reach the goal of former good times, he had 
toiled on. With anxious eyes he scanned vehicles that stood 
about the green, till at last he spied the familiar face of his 
old gray mare, and his wife’s tall form sitting in the buggy. 
With a dignified, earnest expression on her wrinkled face, 
Jerusha was listening to the speaker with rapt attention. 

A strange feeling of reserve, mingled with some bitterness, 
kept Abel from approaching the spot, and shrinking into the 
background, he avoided a meeting with his wife. 

The long hot day dragged on, but for Abel Balcome the 
old-time zest in the program seemed gone. The gossip and 
jokes of his friends and neighbors as they stood about the 
green, or lounged around the bar of the village tavern, seemed 
flat and pointless. The taste of the lemonade with a dash of 
something stronger, for the first time was repugnant to him, 
while the smell of ginger ale, hop beer and other kinds of 
drink, reminded him of Jerusha’s sarcastic remarks of a few 
days before. In spite of himself his eyes and thoughts would 
wander towards the lonely figure sitting sedately in the old 
buggy. At last the sun sank behind the western sky, and the 
lengthening twilight shadows made the prospect of the home¬ 
ward walk less tedious than that of the morning. Not for a 
moment did he think of occupying his rightful share of the 



54 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


buggy behind his old mare. So, with the gathering darkness 
he turned his face homeward, and started on his three-mile 
walk to the farm. 

Meanwhile, Polly had spent the time so happily that the 
coming twilight was a surprise to her. Thinking her uncle 
and aunt would soon return, she hastened to prepare supper 
for the old couple, who, no doubt, would be tired after their 
day at the village. Smiling a little over the circumstances of 
their going, and humming softly to herself, Polly stepped light¬ 
ly about the roomy kitchen. 

Suddenly a loud knock sounded on the front door, while the 
tall shadow of a man’s figure lay across the walk. Now, usual¬ 
ly, Polly Smith was a brave girl, but the thought of meeting 
a strange man at this hour, and in this lonely place, so unpro¬ 
tected, startled her. Silently she stood thinking a moment, 
then with a swift impulse she crept softly across the room to 
the farthest corner. Stepping behind a tall-backed chair with 
a deep flounce, she crouched down, and was completely hid¬ 
den from sight. Rap, rap, rap! again sounded the old brass 
knocker, and then, oh! horror! the door-knob was turned, and 
the door given a gentle shake. 

“Who could it be?” thought Polly from her hiding place. 
Brisk steps sounded on the gravel walk that led to the back 
door which alas! stood open. 

In walked the stranger, and coolly glanced around the emp¬ 
ty room. 

“The impudent fellow, what on earth can he want?” thought 
Polly, peeping slyly from behind the old chair. 

The sight of a tall, athletic young man in a stylish suit of 
light gray, with an up-to-date travelling-bag and a walking- 
stick, made Polly’s black eyes grow big with astonishment. 
Of course this man wasn’t a tramp or a robber. But the swift 
thought that he might be one of those gentleman burglars 
who no doubt would be as fashionably dressed as this hand¬ 
some fellow, gave poor Polly’s heart another quake. With a 
swift glance around, the stranger walked into the sitting-room, 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


56 


opened the door of the little bedroom, and finding them all 
vacant, walked back to the kitchen, and throwing himself into 
a rocking-chair, took off his hat and fanned himself. 

“How natural it all looks,” said he aloud, “and how good 
it seems to be at home again.” 

At these words, and the sound of his voice, Polly’s fears 
vanished. 

“It’s cousin Tom Balcome,” thought she with a delightful 
thrill. “How ridiculous for me to be hiding here. What will 
he think of me?” 

“Supper seems to be nearly ready; so mother can’t have 
gone far,” said he again aloud, as he leaned back and closed 
his eyes with a tired yawn. 

Now was her chance, thought Polly, to slip out of her em¬ 
barrassing position. Cautiously she sought to rise, when un¬ 
fortunately for her plan, her dress was caught beneath the 
legs of the chair, and as she arose, it fell with a loud crash. 

Up sprang the young man, with decidedly wide-open eyes 
that gazed at Polly with astonishment. With tousled hair, 
blushing cheeks, and twinkling eyes, Polly walked towards 
him with outstretched hand. 

“How do you do, cousin Tom?” said she demurely. 

“I’m very well, thank you, Miss,” here the young man 
paused inquiringly. 

“Oh! I’m Polly. Don’t you remember cousin Polly Smith?” 
said the girl, growing more and more crimson at his earnest 
gaze. 

“What, the little Polly whom I left in short dresses and long 
curls?” exclaimed Tom. 

“The very same,” answered Polly, smiling. 

“How glad I am to see you,” said Tom, with a hearty grasp 
of her hand. “But where did you spring from so suddenly. 
I thought there was no one here?” 

<*l —I W as behind the chair in the corner,” stammered Polly. 

“Were you afraid?” said Tom, laughing. 

“Well, you see, cousin Tom, uncle and aunt have gone to 




56 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 

< 


the village, and being alone, I did feel afraid when I saw a 
strange man coming, and so I hid,” explained Polly with more 
blushes. 

“But what makes you so sure I am cousin Tom?” asked he. 

“Oh. I remembered your voice soon as you spoke, and 
though you have grown so big, you haven’t changed so very 
much,” said Polly, looking at him a little shyly. 

“And I never dreamed that the little girl I used to play with 
so long ago, had grown to be a charming young lady,” an¬ 
swered Tom admiringly. 

“Thanks, cousin Tom, but it’s not the fashion to pay compli¬ 
ments in the country,” laughed Polly. “Now I must finish get¬ 
ting the supper, for aunt and uncle will be at home soon.” 

“Let me help, too, Polly,” cried Tom, and together they 
went merrily to work. 

Jerusha Balcome drove slowly homeward along the lonely coun¬ 
try road. The hot day had glided into the cool shadows of night. 
An early moon threw silvery gleams along the road, and a 
light dew had laid the thick dust. The day had been a pleas¬ 
ant one to Jerusha. The unusual excitement of seeing so 
many people and the eloquent speeches of the great men of 
the place had aroused and interested her greatly. In spite of 
this, however, she had not forgotten her husband for a mo¬ 
ment, and a little sigh escaped her as she thought how pleasant 
it would have been had they gone together. 

“But he never ’d ha’ asked me,” muttered she to herself, 
“an’ I jest had to rise up an’ start myself.” 

Suddenly the mare shied a little as they passed a foot pas¬ 
senger on the road. 

“That man looked ’mazin’ like Abel,” said Jerusha, giving 
the reins a harder pull to urge the mare along. As she did so 
something gave way, and the surprised animal stopped short. 

“Dear me! What on ’arth am I a-goin’ to do now?” said 
Jerusha in dismay. 

“What’s the matter, Jerusha?” called out a familiar voice. 

“Why, Abel Balcome, is that you? Ef I aint glad,” cried 
Jerusha, in a relieved voice. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


57 


“Anything broke?” asked Abel, coming up and examining 
the harness. 

“Yes,, this pesky rein has given out, an’ we aint near home 
yet,” answered his wife. 

“Well, t’aint much of a job to fix it,” said Abel, whipping 
out his knife and a bit of string from his pocket. 

In five minutes the rein was as good as new, and Abel cool¬ 
ly turned the wheel and stepped into the buggy beside his wife. 
With a loud “Go ’long!” to which the mare responded, with 
a backward look at her master’s face, they started off at a 
brisk trot. 

“Have you had a good time, Jerusha?” said Abel after a 
little. 

“Yes, Abel, I have,” answered his wife in a satisfied tone. 
“’T was jest grand to hear them speeches, an’ the music an’ 
see the folks, too. An’ I took dinner with Mary Jane Newton, 
she ’t was a Brown, ye know, an’ she was dreadful glad I 
come.” 

A short silence fell between them, and then Abel said, 
earnestly: 

“Well, Jerusha, I’ve been a-thinking this thing over, an’ ef 
the Lord spares us both to see another Fourth o’ July, I think 
we ’d better celebrate it together.” 

“I’d like it ’mazin’ well, Abel,” answered Jerusha, simply. 
And peace fell upon the hearts of the worthy couple. 

As they paused before the farmhouse door, two figures came 
out to meet them. 

“Ef there aint a strange man with Polly,” said Abel a little 
gruffly. But the mother’s eyes were keener, and as Tom 
sprang forward to lift her from the buggy, she cried in a 
trembling voice: 

“Oh! my boy, my boy!” 

“Yes, mother dear, I’ve come home again,” said Tom, kiss¬ 
ing her tenderly, and Jerusha’s cup of joy was full. 

How can I tell the story of the next few months! The golden 
summer days flew by with joy-laden wings to the inmates of 




58 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


the farmhouse. To Tom and Polly all things seemed glorified 
by the mere presence of the other, and to rake hay for uncle 
Abel, or pick currants for aunt Jerusha, was both a joy and 
delight. With their boy at home the years seemed to fall 
away from Abel and Jerusha, and they grew young again as 
they watched the happy faces of their children. 

A lovely twilight was gathering around aunt Jerusha as she 
sat by the open door, and Tom and Polly walked in and knelt 
down beside her chair. 

1 ‘Mother,” said Tom, “Polly has promised to be my wife. 
Are you glad?” 

The tender tears slid softly down the wrinkled cheeks, as 
with a hand on each bowed head she said quickly: 

“More glad than I can say, Tom, dear. May god bless you 
both.” 

Uncle Abel coming in just then saw the little tableau, and 
brushing the back of his hand across his eyes he exclaimed: 

“Well, I vum?” 


THOUGHTS OF EASTER. 


Nature wakes from winter’s sleep, 

And her promise sure does keep, 
Sweeter, purer life is born, 

When we greet our Easter morn. 

Buds and blossoms, birds and flowers, 
Spring to greet fair April’s showers, 
Peace and joy our hearts do sway 
With the hope of Easter day. 

Let the bells in triumph ring, 

While the birds sweet anthems sing, 
Tender thoughts of Christ abide, 

In our hearts at Easter tide. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


59 


FOR ALL TIME. 


How she loved him! Sitting there, a quiet figure in the 
lonely park, her great earnest eyes lifted to the handsome face 
of the man before her, Prudence Eldridge’s thoughts flew 
swiftly back over the past years. When was there a time she 
had not loved him? 

As children together in the little country village they both 
called home, he had been her cherished playmate; hand in 
hand they had tripped through the village streets to the little 
red schoolhouse on the hill, sharing each others’ dinners, and 
looking over the same book. Later on, a tall girl of sixteen 
with a sweet delicate face, she had timidly accepted his lover¬ 
like airs of ownership, and yielded up her whole heart to his 
keeping. 

Then had come their first separation, when Leon Durrant 
left the village to attend the academy in an adjoining town, 
and Prudence had blushingly taken the teacher’s chair in the 
little country school where she had so long been a pupil. 

Tender and sweet were the missives that flew back and 
forth between them as the weeks went by; one long dream of 
bliss the summer vacation, when, side by side they wandered 
through fragrant woods and shady country roads. What bril¬ 
liant plans they made for the future! what wonderful castles 
in the air they built, each vying with the other in happy 
imaginings! No thought of the cloud that was to dim the 
brightness of these wondrous visions came to disturb their 
trust. A sudden epidemic swept over the village carrying 
away many victims, among whom were Leon Durrant’s parents, 
leaving him alone and homeless. 

Leon faced the situation bravely, and giving up for a time 
his cherished plan of attending a medical college, he took the 
drudgery of a clerkship in a country store as a means of 
present support. 




60 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


Then it was that Prudence Eldridge’s womanly helpfulness 
came to the front. The only child of a wealthy farmer, she 
had no occasion to use the salary she earned as teacher of the 
district school; naturally thrifty and industrious, she taught 
for the love of her work as well as a disinclination to be idle. 

The little pile of banknotes carefully laid away from year 
to year, had grown to a considerable sum, and full of pride 
and ambition for her lover, Prudence urged Leon to use it for 
his medical studies. Shrinking at first from accepting the 
obligation, his proud spirit was conquered at last, and with 
his heart full of love and reverence for his faithful sweetheart, 
he tenderly kissed her good-bye, and in a distant city plunged 
with his whole soul into the studies that were to lead to the 
goal of his hopes. 

Five years rolled swiftly by, bringing many changes in the 
lives of both. The death of her mother caused Prudence to 
give up her school and strive to cheer the loneliness of her 
bereaved father. Quietly happy in making bright the home 
life, she fed her heart on the short letters, and brief visits of 
her busy lover, patiently waiting for the fruition of her hopes. 
Dreaming dreams as girls will, and blushing softly at the 
visions they called up, the days went by, one by one. 

The five years had been almost magical in their effect on 
Leon Durrant. Proving himself a brilliant scholar, and won¬ 
derfully gifted in surgery, he seemed to almost plough his way 
through every obstacle that beset his path, till loud and earnest 
were the praises that fell from the lips of professors and fellow 
students. Roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm and am¬ 
bition, he skilfully and successfully performed a difficult oper¬ 
ation, thereby saving the life of one of the wealthiest young 
men in the city. 

A warm friendship sprung up between the two young men, 
John Markman refusing the attendance of any physician save 
the young doctor who had saved his life. A sea voyage being 
necessary to the complete recovery of the patient, Leon Dur¬ 
rant had been the physician John Markman had chosen to ac¬ 
company him, offering him a salary no poor man could well 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


61 


refuse. One cool day late in the fall, Leon made a hurried 
journey to his old home to tell Prudence of his chance to go 
abroad, and to prepare her for the long separation. 

As the train carried him nearer and nearer to his journey’s 
end a strange feeling of annoyance and perplexity filled his 
mind and clouded his usually bright face. Can it be that he 
dreads to meet his patient little sweetheart, and shrinks from 
the thought of her tender caresses? Alas! during the last 
twelve months, when fortune and friends seem at last within 
his grasp, the sweet girl face with its wistful eyes has grown 
more and more dim to his present vision, and seems to belong 
alone to his past life. 

The thought of his unpaid debt to her fills him with a disa¬ 
greeable sense of irritation, and makes him long for the gener¬ 
ous salary so soon to be his; yet he forgets the greater debt of 
love and devotion he owes her. Standing before her now in 
the village park where they have come for this last farewell, 
he pours out to her his plans for the future, enthusiastically 
describing his friend Markman, his great generosity and the 
prospects of his success in the Old World. 

How handsome he looked; tall and broad shouldered, his 
dark eyes full of a restless fire, his perfect white teeth gleam¬ 
ing through his heavy moustache as he talked; yet to Prudence 
the change in him was something terrible to see, and her heart 
sinks down heavy in her bosom. How she loved him! only 
once since he came has he carelessly brushed her cheek with 
his lips, while, oh, heaven! how hungry her heart was for the 
old warmth of his lavished kisses; and now, hark! what is it 
he is saying? 

“I am glad you take it so calmly, Prudence; I know you 
must feel with me that it is best for me to go. ’ ’ 

“Yes, it is best,” her dry lips made answer faintly. 

“I may be gone several years,” he went on, hurrying over 
his words nervously, “and I should not wish you to feel bound 
by that old promise to wait for me, if you have a better offer. ’ ’ 

A better offer! oh, the dumb agony of those true eyes lifted 
to his face; what can he mean? 



62 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“In a few months I hope to be able to return the money you 
loaned me, Prudence,” he continued, walking restlessly up and 
down the path before her, “I shall be glad to have the debt 
settled. ’ ’ 

“Oh! Leon, don’t,” cried Prudence, hurt beyond endurance. 

“I know your generous heart, Prue,” said he, a little 
shamed by the pain in her voice, “but a fellow doesn’t like 
to be in debt to a woman longer than he can help, you know. ’ ’ 

In debt to a woman; how strange the words sounded from 
his lips; so she was only “a woman” now. How cold it was 
growing; how mournfully the wind swept through the trees; a 
long shiver ran over her, and she trembled visibly. 

“You are taking cold, Prudence,” looking at her suddenly, 
“how careless of me to let you sit here so long, come, let us 
go back to the house.” 

Passively she let him lead her by the arm, and they walked 
silently down the street. 

“I guess I won’t come in to-night,” said Leon, feeling 
strangely uncomfortable at the rigid silence of the figure be¬ 
side him, i ‘ and I shall have to be off early in the morning; will 
you not wish me a successful voyage?” 

“I wish you success,” she answered mechanically, holding 
out a cold, lifeless hand. A twinge of remorse passed over 
him, and swiftly he touched her cold lips with his own. 

“Good bye, Prudence, take care of yourself while I am 
away. ’ ’ 

“Good bye, Leon.” The door closed between them, and he 
was gone. 

Slowly she dragged her heavy feet up the stairs to her 
room, and shutting the door sank down into the nearest chair. 
How tired she is; heavily she moves towards the bureau and 
fumbling for the match box strikes a light. The gleam of 
the blazing match falls on the pictured face of Leon Durrant 
as it stands in its frame on the bureau and the handsome dark 
eyes seem to smile at her with the old love. The match goes 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


63 


out, and the shadows of night fill the room once more, while 
Prudence, grasping the picture in her shaking hands kisses it 
passionately over and over again. 

“Oh! my God, let me die,” she moans, falling face down¬ 
ward on the floor, with the picture held close to her aching 
heart. 

Hour after hour passed by and still she lay motionless. The 
wind sweeps the branches of the trees against the window, 
making ghostly tappings in the dark room, and mournful sighs 
and sobs wail down the great old-fashioned chimney. Twelve 
strokes of the village clock ring out on the still night air, and 
as the last stroke dies away, Prudence lifts herself slowly to 
her feet. Drawing down the curtains, she lights, one after 
the other, the candles scattered about the room, on stands, 
bureau and mantel, till every shadow has fled before the bril¬ 
liant flood of light; then slowly, her fingers feeling stiff and 
clumsy, she unfastens the close-fitting dress, and stepping out 
of its folds, flings it across a chair. Wrapping a heavy white 
shawl about her shoulders, she moves swiftly across the room 
and kneels down before a tall, old-fashioned chest of drawers. 
A faint smell of violets scents the air, as Prudence opens the 
lower drawer and lifts out pile after pile of snowy linen for 
bed, table and bath, all of the finest and daintiest, and marked 
by her own delicate fingers. Placing them in one great pile 
on the floor, she opens the next drawer, and with close- 
pressed lips empties its contents beside the others. Oh! 
the tender thoughts, the passionate love that has been 
sewed stitch by stitch into these dainty lace-trimmed garments; 
oh, the precious hopes, the smiles and blushes, the girlish 
tears, only God and her own heart can ever know. One by 
one the old chest empties its drawers on the floor, each one 
telling its tale of tender hopes and unfulfilled desires. 

At last but one is left unopened, and as she stands before it, 
she leans her head against its locked contents, while her form 
shakes with the sobs so long suppressed; then wrenching open 
the drawer, she carefully lifts out a package wrapped in tissue 
paper. Untying the ribbon that binds it, she softly touches it 



64 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


with her trembling lips. A dainty house jacket with cap to 
match, scarlet faced and richly embroidered by her own hands, 
lay spread out before her. “For Leon, from Prudence,” was 

written on a small card and tied to one of the buttons of the 

» , 

jacket. 

One more package wrapped in tissue paper Prudence lays 
beside the rest, though the roll of rich lavender silk receives 
but a passing glance from her tear-dimmed eyes. Opening the 
door of a deep closet, she drags out a great empty trunk, and 
carefully and neatly packs away each article of that simple 
wedding outfit; before closing the lid, she takes Leon Dur- 
rant’s picture from its place on her bureau, and with one long 
kiss on its cold, smiling face, she places it carefully on the 
pile of clothing in the trunk; then quickly dropping the lid, 
she turns the key in the lock. The last sputtering candle has 
gone out, and the gray dawn is creeping in at the window, 
when Prudence slips shivering into her bed. 

In a sparely furnished chamber of the country hotel, Leon 
Durrant has passed a sleepless night, tossing restlessly about 
and feeling strangely uncomfortable. Something of the agony 
in Prudence’s eyes, as they last met his own, has pierced 
through the crust of selfishness that has chilled the warmth of 
his old love, and left a bitter sting; yet, man-like, his vanity 
demands even the greater sacrifice of a more open show of 
regret on Prudence’s part, and as he springs out of bed and 
makes a hasty toilet he mutters savagely to himself, 

“How cold and undemonstrative Prudence has grown, how 
could I ever imagine we were suited to each other.” Then 
throwing off all feeling of regret or annoyance his thoughts 
fly to the brilliant promises for the future, and before many 
days have passed away the broad ocean rolls between them. 

Slowly the winter days drag themselves away, while Pru¬ 
dence Eldridge’s outward life moves on in the same quiet 
round of homely duties. Never again did she yield to that 
passionate storm of feeling that had swept with such intensity 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


65 


of force over her young heart; but with the closing of that 
fast locked trunk, she had closed the door of her affections, 
and sealed it w T ith a proud strength, before unknown. 

None but the keenest eyes could detect the change that had 
passed over her, for while the pink in the rounded cheeks grew 
more delicate in its shadings, and the tender light in the blue 
eyes was quenched by a prouder gleam, the new dignity of 
carriage her girlish form had acquired was vastly becoming, 
and who could tell that this was the mask that God had given 
her to hide from the world her crushed and wounded heart. 

But one brief and coldly-worded letter with the check en¬ 
closed did Prudence receive from Leon all that long winter; 
yet through the newspapers she learned much of his doings in 
the Old World. 

Through the influence and friendship of his wealthy patron, 
John Markman, he had made a swift and brilliant success in 
his profession. A little later, while travelling in France, he 
discovered a titled relative who made much of him, and for 
a time he led a gay life in beautiful Paris. At last there came 
the news of his marriage with the handsome daughter of a 
wealthy count, and the last faint shadow of hope in Prudence 
Eldridge’s heart faded away. 

Two years later, Prudence’s father closed his eyes in his last 
long sleep, and fatherless and motherless, she stood alone in 
the great wide world with her future in her own hands. 
Blessed with a goodly inheritance and free to follow the bent 
of her own sweet will, she yielded to the longing that had se¬ 
cretly consumed her for years; the longing to see something 
of the world outside of her native place. 

With a dear old aunt as companion she starts out on her 
travels. Spending her winters in the South, her summers in 
the North and West, and visiting every place of note, she ac¬ 
quires a 'culture of mind and heart that nothing else could 
give. Always gifted with her pen; she writes descriptions of 
her travels with considerable success, and thus finds a conge¬ 
nial work that seems to satisfy the unfulfilled wants of her 
empty life. 



66 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


Ten years of summer’s bloom and winter’s snow have come 
and gone, and Prudence Eldridge has long since ceased to hear 
aught of Leon Durrant, and the memory of her one love is 
buried deep in the dead past. Many a good man has laid his 
heart at her feet only to hear a gentle “No” fall from her lips. 
Of late she had taken to spending her winters at the Capital, 
for dearly she loved its broad streets, its beautiful parks and 
grand buildings, and never did she tire of wandering through 
the broad avenues. Though not in the whirl of fashionable 
society she yet enjoyed glimpses of its gaiety even while 
leading a life of quiet retirement. 

Some undefinable feeling has turned her footsteps some¬ 
what earlier in the fall of the year, toward her winter’s quar¬ 
ters at Washington, and late in October finds her settled for 
the winter. 

Intensely patriotic she finds a great fascination in wander¬ 
ing through the beautiful grounds of the National Cemetery 
at Arlington, and one lovely morning soon after her arrival in 
Washington we find her in the midst of the beautiful silence 
of the home of our dead heroes. The air is soft and balmy, 
the gardens still fresh and green, showing scarcely a touch of 
Autumn’s fingers, while many flowers still bloomed in the 
warm sunshine. 

Wandering through the pleasant walks bordered with flow¬ 
ers, Prudence felt a great wave of pity sweep over her as she 
gazed at the countless headstones marked “unknown”, to¬ 
gether with the stately monuments erected in memory of those 
of higher rank; and a wonder grew up in her mind, if in the 
great Beyond where dwell the souls of all these slaughtered 
men, the word “rank” has any significance. Who can tell? 

Carried away by her emotions, her eyes blinded with tears, 
she did not notice a gentleman walking up the path toward 
her, till he stood directly in her way, and paused for her to 
move aside; with a hasty movement she brushed away the 
tears and was about to walk on, when lifting her eyes she 
looked him full in the face. A strange feeling as though she 
gazed on one risen from the dead swept over her as her tear- 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


67 


bright eyes recognized the features of the man before her, and 
holding out her hand, her pale lips murmured his name: 

* ‘Leon Durrant.” 

“Yes, Prudence, it is I, or the wreck of what I once was,” 
he answered bitterly, touching the right sleeve of his coat 
which alas! hung empty by his side. 

“Oh, Leon! What has happened??” cried Prudence gazing 
at him with horror-stricken eyes, while all the cruel past is 
swept from her mind in her womanly sympathy for his great 
loss. 

“Only the just punishment for a man’s folly,” said he sad¬ 
ly; then with a swift change of tone and a smile that gives 
the haggard face something of the old look, he continued: 

“Forgive my roughness, Prudence, and tell me how it hap¬ 
pens you are here, and looking as if Time had passed you by 
with never a touch of his rough fingers.” 

Smiling a little, Prudence led the way to an empty bench, 
and sitting down motioned to him to sit beside her; then with 
a trouble look in her gentle eyes and touching his empty 
sleeve, she said, 

*‘ Tell me first, Leon, what this means ? ’ ’ 

With a humility wholly new to Prudence he obeys her, and 
tells the bitter story of the last ten years of his life, in no 
wise seeking to shield his own faults or to blame too harshly 
those of others. 

Carried away by his sudden and brilliant success, and the 
flattery of the titled nobility of Paris, he was led into a rash 
marriage with the Count’s beautiful daughter, whose vanity 
and unfaithful conduct led to jealous quarrels and bitter un¬ 
happiness. At last in defense of his honor he was forced into 
a duel with his wife’s lover in which he lost his strong right 
arm, and with it all hope in his beloved profession. During 
the weeks of fever and prostration that followed, his wife fled 
with her lover and while crossing the Atlantic they were both 
lost at sea. 

Back to the home of his youth he came with broken health 



68 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


and ruined prospects, and learning to write with his left hand, 
he had found employment as a clerk in the pension office at 
Washington. 

4 'And this is the end of all my brilliant hopes, Prudence,” he 
added with a sad smile, “I am an old man before my time, 
with nothing in life worth living for.” 

Prudence’s heart was full of grief and sympathy as she 
listened to his wretched story; then in quiet tones she told 
him of her life of travel and study, her writing and her peace¬ 
ful enjoyment of its cultivation. Looking into the calm depths 
of those gentle eyes Leon Durrant groaned in spirit at his own 
short-sighted folly, while the consciousness that here was a 
woman who would have been a faithful helpmeet throughout 
all his life, pure and steadfast, loving and tender, filled his 
soul with despair. Suddenly a new thought passes swiftly 
through his mind and he bends over her eagerly. 

4 4 But, Prudence, you have never married, why is it?” 

For an instant she did not answer and a faint pink stole 
into her cheeks, then lifting her honest blue eyes to his face 
she said softly, 

44 1 had no heart to give.” 

44 Prue, Prue,” cried Leon, her words rousing a fierce hope 
in his heart, 44 do not trifle with me, I beseech you.” 

44 I could not if I would, Leon,” she answered, her sweet 
lips trembling slightly. 

4 4 But it cannot be that you still care for me in the old way, 
Prue, that, oh! dare I say it, dear, your love is still the same?” 

44 Always the same, Leon,” she answered bravely, though 
the crimson dyed her face. With a swift movement he knelt 
on the ground before her and burying his face in the fold of 
her dress he muttered hoarsely, 

4 4 My darling, my darling, I am not worthy of so great a 
love. ’ ’ 

44 Hush, dear,” said Prudence, 44 it could not be otherwise, 
for the love of every true woman once given, is given for all 
time. ’ ’ 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


69 


HER EASTER BONNET. 


“What did ye say ye wanted it for?” asked Pliny Badger, 
reluctantly unrolling his old leather wallet, and fingering a 
few soiled bills with a thoughtful air; “ye know I aint got no 
money to fool away on fol-de-rols.’ ’ 

A slight flush crept into his wife’s cheeks. ‘ ‘ ’T ’aint often I 
ask for money, Pliny, that ye need to speak so,” answered 
she a little sharply, “an’ as for fol-de-rols I don’t just know 
what ye mean by ’em.” 

“Oh! women’s foolishness generally; ribbons an’ laces, an’ 
make-believe posies, and sich like,” said Pliny still counting 
over his money earnestly. 

“Women’s foolishness!” repeated Melissa indignantly, “I 
guess men’s foolishness costs about as much as most women’s 
an’ they don’t amount to nothin’ but smoke either.” 

“Well, well, Melissa, don’t go to harpin’ on that string,” 
cried Pliny, impatiently, “smokin’ aint the worst thing a man 
can do.” 

“An’ how much money have I spent on ribbons and posies 
this twenty years, Pliny Badger?” continued Melissa, excited¬ 
ly. “I aint had a bran’-new bonnet for the last five years. 
Just because I’ve turned an’ twisted an’ made over my own 
bonnets year after year, dyeing my ribbons an’ flowers, an’ 
sewing over the straw, I suppose ye think I’m goin’ to keep 
right on doin’ of it forever an’ a day after. But I aint a-goin’ 
to, Pliny, any longer. I’m a-goin to have a bran’-new bonnet 
this spring, an’ I’m a-goin to get it early so ’s to wear it to 
church on Easter Sunday.” 

“So ye shall, so ye shall, Melissa,” said Pliny hastily, look¬ 
ing alarmed at the rising storm. “Here’s two dollars to 




70 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


throw away on that bonnet, an’ you just go down to the vil¬ 
lage an’ buy the cutest thing ye can find in Miss Crockett’s 
store. ’ ’ 

For a moment Melissa looked at the torn bill in her hus¬ 
band’s hand in silence, then with her voice trembling with its 
weight of scorn, she burst out: 

“Two dollars! What kind of a bonnet do ye think I can 
buy with that?” said she indignantly. 

Pliny’s face lengthened. 

“Sho! Melissa, how much do ye want, anyhow?” said he 
slowly. 

“I want ten dollars, Pliny Badger,” answered Melissa firm¬ 
ly* 

“Phew!” whistled Pliny, “ye must be crazy, Melissa, to 
think o’ spendin’ ten dollars jest for a bonnet.” 

“The minister’s wife paid twenty for hers last fall,” an¬ 
swered Melissa. 

“That’s another thing, Melissa. La! if I was a-gettin’ a 
salary of five or six hundred a year, to say nothin’ o’ dona¬ 
tion parties an ’ funerals thrown in, ye might think on ’t, ” an¬ 
swered Pliny. 

“Well, we aint so ’mazin’ poor, but we can afford to be a 
little extravagant once in a while, suppose ye don’t,” said his 
wife. “Ye didn’t think nothin’ ’bout bein’ poor at ’lection 
time when ye put up ten dollars with Ezra Sawin, a-bettin’ 
who’d be the next President.” 

“That’s all right, Melissa, long’s I won the bet,” said Pliny 
with a grin. 

“But I don’t believe Ezra ’s paid ye the money or ever 
will,” said Melissa, with a sharp look at her husband’s face. 

Pliny looked a little foolish. 

“Yes, he will, I’ve got his note for % Melissa, an’ Ezra 
Sawin ’s man o’ his word, if he is a bit long winded.” 

“You ought to both on ye be ashamed o’ makin’ bets, any¬ 
how, an’ you a church member too, Pliny,” said Melissa, 
severely. 

“ ’T’aint exactly orthodox I don’t suppose,” said Pliny, 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


71 


‘ ‘ an’ ’t aint often I do sich a thing, but I tell ye what, Melissa, 
last election was enough to stir up the dander in every man 
that had any fight in him. An’ when Ezra Sawin turned 
Bryanite an’ swore he’d be our next President, I jest said 
‘put up yer money, Ezra.’ ” 

“An’ then he gave ye his note instead,” said Melissa, “an’ 
that ’s all the good it ’ll ever do ye. But as long as ye didn’t 
lose nothin’ ye are well out on ’t, Pliny, and ye can well afford 
to buy me a bran’-new bonnet for Easter,” concluded she 
triumphantly. 

Pliny Badger looked serious. 

“I don’t see jest how I’m a goin’ to spare that much for ye, 
Melissa,” said he slowly. “It ’s most seedin’ time, ye know, 
an’ ready money’s hard to get hold on, an’ I need all I’ve got, 
an’ more too. But I’ll tell ye what, Melissa, suppose you take 
this note an’ see what you can do to make Ezra Sawin turn it 
into cash.” 

“I won’t have nothin’ to do with that horrid note,” cried 
Melissa, thrusting back the offered paper into her husband’s 
hand. “I want the money or nothing.” 

“All right, Melissa, only it ’ll have to be that note or 
nothin’,” said Pliny, throwing the note on the table and leav¬ 
ing the room. 

For a while, Melissa sat looking at the bit of soiled paper. 
Anger, disappointment and chagrin passed over her face in 
rapid succession. At last she took up the note and read it 
carefully : 

“If McKinley is elected President of the United States, I 
agree to pay to Pliny Badger the sum of ten dollars, or its 
equivalent. Signed, EZRA SAWIN. 

Witnessed by, DORCAS SAWIN.” 

As she read the last clause of this very original note of hand, 
Melissa threw it down impatiently. 

“Just as I expected. Ezra Sawin is too sharp for Pliny 
every time he has any kind o’ dealin’s with him. Ezra never 
meant to pay him a cent in money whichever way the election 
turned out. Or its equivalent! humph! Ezra Sawin is about 



72 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


a§ mean a man as there is in this part of the country. An* 
Dorcas never ’d signed the note, either, if she’d thought the 
money would ever have to be paid. Oh! I know ’em both.” 
Melissa jumped up and walked the floor in her excitement. 

“Dear me, I did so want a bran’-new bonnet this spring. 
I don’t seem to have nothin ’ that’s worth a-fixin ’ up this time. 
I ’ve dyed my old ribbons over an’ over till they are as stiff 
as paper an’ crackle like shavin’s. An’ those old violets look 
more like blackberries than violets, they are so black and 
crumpled. Seems if the more a woman saves an’ pinches the 
more she may, an’ a man sort o’ expects it of her. An’ then 
if she complains he tells her she looks just as young an’ pretty 
in the old duds as if they was new.” Melissa glanced in the 
mirror over the kitchen sink, as she paused in her march about 
the room. It was a fresh comely face the glass reflected, with 
smooth skin, glossy, dark hair, and eyes which her flash of 
temper had fired till they snapped and glowed with unusual 
brilliancy. Her expression hardened a little, as she viewed 
her own well preserved charms. 

“Pliny Badger just makes me tired with his everlastin’ talk 
about ‘handsome is as handsome does,’ an’ that when a woman 
gets past forty she ought to stop a-followin’ the fashions an’ 
prinkin’. But I’ve alius noticed that the women the men are 
the most polite to, are the ones who are rigged out to kill, an’ 
frizzled down to the eyebrows. A woman is never too old to 
want to look well, accordin’ to my idea, or to want new 
clothes. Even old Mother Earth changes the fashion of her 
garment every season,” muttered Melissa, waxing poetical as 
she threw open the door to let in the warm spring sunshine. 
The fields and meadows were covered with the tender green 
of young grass and early wildflowers. The brooks sparkled in 
the golden sunlight; the birds sang gaily in the budding 
treetops, and over all bent a sky blue and cloudless. 

Only for a moment did she gaze upon that springtime love¬ 
liness, for Melissa Badger was too busy and practical a woman 
to yield very long to a sentimental emotion. Carefully refold- 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


73 


ing Ezra Sawin’s note of hand, she put it away and went 
about her daily tasks in her usual brisk manner. 

It wanted but two weeks to Easter, and still Melissa was no 
nearer the goal of her ambition in regard to that new bonnet. 
Not a word had been spoken between them on the subject, 
and man-like, Pliny had forgotten entirely his wife’s request. 
For the last time Melissa had looked over her stock of milli¬ 
nery and decided that it was impossible to make further use 
of it, and that the new bonnet must be forthcoming. But how, 
when, or where, was an unsettled question. 

Again and again did the thought of Ezra’s note come to her 
mind, as a possible solving of this problem. But the hopeless¬ 
ness of the “equivalent” being anything she could turn into 
money had disheartened her. At last, however, there seemed 
to be no other way of obtaining the desired sum at the time 
needed, and she determined to make the trial. 

The golden sunshine of a lovely spring morning flooded the 
world, as Ezra Sawin turned over the rich, brown earth in his 
potato patch, preparatory to his early planting. Suddenly, 
the sound of wheels attracted his attention, and pausing in his 
work he saw a brisk little colt drawing a democratic wagon, 
and driven by a woman, coming along the road. In spite of 
shabby shawl and faded bonnet, Melissa was a pleasant sight 
to any man, and Ezra Sawin smiled broadly, as he walked out 
to the approaching team. 

“Why, good mornin,’ Mrs Badger, ye are out early, aint ye? 
Dorcas ’ll be ’mazin’ glad to see ye,” said he cordially, as 
the colt stopped before him. 

“I haven’t come a-callin’ today, Mr. Sawin,” answered Me¬ 
lissa, briskly. “It’s a little matter of business to do with you, 
I’m here for.” 

“Sho! ye don’t say,” answered Ezra, laughing a little un¬ 
easily. “What might it be now?” 

Melissa drew from her pocket a slip of folded paper, which 
looked supiciously familiar to the old farmer. 

“You recognize this note, don’t ye, Mr. Sawin?” said Me¬ 
lissa, holding out the paper. “It’s the one you gave Pliny at 



74 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


election time last fall. You see, Pliny is a little short of ready 
money just now, an’ he told me I might collect this note from 
you. ’ ’ 

Ezra’s face grew long and sober. 

“La! Mrs. Badger, I didn’t suppose Pliny ’d take that ’ere 
note seriously. ’T was all done in sort o’ fun, ye know,” said 
he, slowly. 

Melissa’s eyes snapped. 

“ Oh! it was, was it, Mr. Sawin ? ’ ’ cried she, quickly. * 1 But, 
suppose Pliny had lost; what then?” 

“Why, that would ’a’ been his lookout, o’ course,” said 
Ezra, with a sly look. “You see, Mrs. Badger, we was both 
on us excited over the election, or we’d never ’a’ done sich a 
foolish thing as to bet. Why, it was most unchristian, an’ I’ve 
been ’shamed on ’t ever since.” 

“That’s neither here nor there, Mr. Sawin. What’s done 
can’t be undone, an’ ye know mighty well that if Pliny had 
’a’ lost that bet you would ’a’ had your money straight. For 
my husband is an honorable man, Ezra Sawin, an’ pays his 
bills, always,” said Melissa, sternly. 

Ezra coughed slightly. 

“Well, well, Mrs. Badger, I don’t want any hard feelin’s 
over that ’ere paper, but really, I can’t let ye have no money 
on’t, sure,” said he, slowly. 

“Then I must have its equivalent,” said Melissa, her voice 
hardening, “that’s what the paper said, ‘ten dollars or its 
equivalent.’ ” 

Ezra pulled a bit of grass and chewed on it meditatively. 

“There’s potatoes an’ apples ye might have,” said he, “we 
had a lot left over from last year.” 

“So did we,” snapped Melissa, shortly. 

“There aint nothin’ else as I know on, ye’d want, unless it’s 
a pig,” continued Ezra, grinning a little. 

Melissa looked furious a moment, then cooling a little she 
said, quickly: 

“Let me see the pigs.” 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


75 


“All right, Mrs. Badger, ye can see ’em, sure,” said Ezra, 
laughing as if it was a good joke, “but I guess ye’ll want 
somethin’ ’sides a pig.” 

Jumping out of the w~agon and securely fastening the rest¬ 
less colt, Melissa fallowed the farmer around the house to the 
pig pen. A loud squealing greeted their approach. 

“There, Mrs. Badger, aint they beauties?” cried Ezra. 
“Those half grown ones are about ready to kill.” 

“What are they worth?” asked Melissa. 

“Well, they ought to bring five dollars apiece,” said Ezra, 
off his guard. 

“I’ll take the two,” said Melissa. 

“Sho! Mrs. Badger, ye must be foolin’,” cried Ezra, sur¬ 
prised. “Them pigs are the best o’ the whole lot.” 

“So much the better for me,” said Melissa firmly. If those 
two pigs are worth ten dollars, that just cancels the note, and 
I’ll take ’em. 

Expostulations and arguments were of no avail, and after a 
lively skirmish the two squealing porkers were tied in the 
back of the democrat wagon. Ezra Sawin knew full well that 
this was not the proper way to send the pigs to market; but 
thinking Melissa was going no further than her husband’s 
farm, he cared nothing for that. With that unfortunate note 
in his hand, he watched the team out of sight, muttering 
wrathfully to himself as he went back to his work in the po¬ 
tato patch. 

Not being used to carrying so noisy a load, the colt grew 
more and more restless at the squealing of the pigs till he al¬ 
most seemed to fly over the moist country road. Faster and 
faster he went, his excitement increasing till Melissa could 
hold him in no longer. With one desperate effort she rose to her 
feet and pulled on the lines. Plunging forward the frightened 
colt threw her to the ground, while the squealing pigs went 
flying after her. 

Considerably bruised, but not seriously hurt, Melissa picked 
herself up, only to see her colt flying toward the village at 
lightning speed, and the pigs rolling in the mud beside the 




76 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


road. As she was but a short distance from her destination, 
she continued on her way, driving her pigs before her. Never 
did two pigs rush along in so wild a fashion. First on one 
side of the road, and then the other, till Melissa grew nearly 
frantic in her efforts to urge them on. Pedestrians and travel¬ 
lers gazed curiously at the disheveled looking woman driving 
two pigs to market, but so strangely did Melissa seem during 
this adventure that no one recognized her. 

On she went, the pigs leading her a wild dance all over the 
road, till by some strange good luck they both rushed into the 
yard which belonged to the butcher, John Bixby. With a 
groan of relief, Melissa followed after, greeting the butcher 
by crying out hysterically: 

“Oh! Mr. Bixby, won’t you please buy these two pigs?” 

“For goodness sakes, Mrs. Badger, what has happened to ye? 
You are all mud, an’ your dress is torn.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Melissa wildly. “The colt threw 
me an’ then run away, but do please buy these pigs, Mr. Bixby, 
won’t you? I’ve had such a time in getting them here.” 

The good-natured butcher looked at the excited woman a 
moment in silence, then closing the gate to prevent the escape 
of those mischievous pigs, he said quietly : 

“Now, Mrs. Badger, just you come right in the house an’ sit 
with Mrs. Bixby awhile, an’ tell us all about it while you get 
rested, an’ then I’ll see about the pigs.” 

Melissa was but too glad to do as she was bid, and after 
pledging them both to secrecy, she told them the story of 
Pliny’s bet with Ezra Sawin and its result. With roars of 
laughter the jolly butcher listened to her tale, and when she 
had finished he thrust his hand in his pocket, and drawing out 
a well-filled wallet he extracted two five-dollar bills, saying, as 
he held them toward her: 

“There! Mrs. Badger, if ever a woman earned her Easter 
bonnet, you have, an’ I’ll take the pigs, sure.” 

A little later the skittish colt was captured without much 
damage being done either to himself or the wagon; and Melissa 
drove homeward with a feeling of triumph, even though con- 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


77 


siderably tired with her adventures. Not a word did she say 
to Pliny of what had befallen her, and the subject of the new 
bonnet was not again discussed between them. 

Easter morning dawned bright and clear, and all the earth 
put on her springtime garments. Blithely the church bells 
rang out their notes of joy and praise. The bluebird and the 
robin sang loudly in the leafing trees, and the babbling brooks 
murmured a low refrain. The air was warm and balmy, and 
the sunshine lay in golden patches on the grass in front of 
the Badger farmhouse, as Pliny led out the colt hitched to a 
shining buggy. Not until early that very morning had he 
thought of its being Easter Sunday. A slight feeling of un¬ 
easiness came over him as he remembered his wife’s request 
for a new bonnet, and vaguely he wished that he had given 
it more thought. Suddenly the door opened and out stepped 
Melissa, looking, as Pliny said ever after, “Just like a pic¬ 
ture.” The saying that “fine feathers make fine birds” must 
be a true one, for while Melissa, even in her shabby clothes 
was a woman fair to look upon, yet clad in her fresh, new gar¬ 
ments, she seemed in the eyes of her husband as gorgeous as a 
bird of paradise. A neat tailor-made suit of gray cloth, with 
jacket to match, and a dainty black straw bonnet trimmed with 
tasty bows of velvet ribbon and pink roses, was the cause of 
this transformation in Melissa. 

“Well! I snum,” muttered Pliny, as he helped his wife into 
the bnggy. Then, as they drove out of the dooryard, he said 
with an admiring glance at her rosy, smiling face: 

“How on earth did you do it, Melissa?” 

“I sold the pigs, Pliny,” answered she demurely. 

“What pigs?” said he. 

“Why, Ezra Sawin’s pigs, to be sure,” answered Melissa, 
laughing. 

“You don’t mean to say-” burst out Pliny, a light be¬ 

ginning to dawn upon him. 

“Yes, I do, Pliny,” interrupted his wife gaily. “Now, just 
look out for that colt, while I tell you all about it.” 




78 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


As she finished her story, Pliny joined in her laugh over her 
adventures and Ezra Sawin’s discomfiture. 

“Melissa, you are the smartest woman in all New England," 
said he earnestly. “An’ accordin’ to my idea, the hand¬ 
somest, too." 

With these words he bent over and gave his wife a loud kiss, 
which so startled the colt that he flew over the road faster 
than ever. 

The little village church was thronged with worshippers, as 
Pliny Badger and his wife walked decorously up the aisle. The 
scent of lilies filled the air, and as Melissa breathed in their 
fragrance, there came to her a sweet consciousness of spring¬ 
time gladness together with the pleasant satisfaction of that 
brand’new Easter bonnet. 


THE FUTURE.—A Sonnet. 


Thou fathomless book of mysteries dark and deep, 
Where, closely bound and locked within thy breast, 
Are joys and sorrows, all this life’s behest, 

Where caught and held in chains of dreamless sleep, 
The untold tales their silent councils keep; 

Would I be happier, feel myself more blest, 

If from thy face the mystic veil was wrest? 

Would I have cause for smiles, or tears to weep? 

No answer comes; the future years are bound 
To hold their peace, and meet our prayers and tears 
With sternest, grimmest silence, most profound, 

And pay no heed to hopes, or anxious fears; 

But with the changeless course of human fate, 
Leaves naught for us to do but trust and wait. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


79 


THE STORY OF A WISH-BONE. 


It was Thanksgiving day in the fall of *63. The shadow of 
the great tragedy that was being enacted in the South, cast 
its gloom over the whole country. In many households the 
“vacant chair” was its most conspicuous object, and heart¬ 
ache and sad forebodings marred the serenity of the home life. 
The old-time joyous anticipation of Thanksgiving day, with 
its bustle of preparation, and its renewal of family ties, was 
wanting. Yet custom prevailed, and though hearts were 
heavy, and dear ones were missing, the annual thanksgiving 
offering of prayer and praise was sent to Him, who, knowing 
the ultimate victory of that fierce struggle, suffered the sacri¬ 
fice to be. 

Though the day was bitter cold, the air was clear, and the 
glorious sunshine flooded the world with brilliant light, and 
flung its rays around a slight, girlish figure, standing in the 
open doorway of a Vermont farmhouse. 

With her hand shading her eyes, the girl glanced eagerly 
down the long country road, while the combine odors of roast¬ 
ing turkey, mince pies, and Indian pudding rushed through 
the open door into the crisp, November air. The sound of 
horses’s hoofs upon the frozen ground brought a swift color 
to her cheeks, and with one sharp glance in its direction, she 
softly closed the door and stepped back into the warm kitchen. 

“Is he coming, Dorothy?” said Mrs. Howard, glancing at 
her daughter’s flushed cheeks and brightened eyes, while a 
faint smile curved her own grave lips. 

Dorothy nodded gaily, as she flew about the room, putting 
the finishing touches to the nearly prepared dinner-table. 
Suddenly the door was flung open, and a tall, manly-looking 
fellow, in a soldier’s uniform, stepped inside. 

“I have come for one good square meal, Mrs. Howard, be- 





80 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


fore I go down South to whip the rebels/’ said he with forced 
gaiety, though his eyes looked anxiously into Dorothy’s face, 
from which the color had faded as he spoke. 

“You—you are going to the war?” stammered she slowly. 

Roger Whitney crossed the room, and took the girl’s trem¬ 
bling fingers in his own. 

“Dorothy, my country needs me. Will you not bid me ‘God 
speed?’ ” said he earnestly. 

With childish force the girl wrenched herself from his 
clasp, and covered her face. 

“It is too cruel, too cruel,” she sobbed bitterly. 

“Hush! Dorothy! Have you forgotten that you are a sol¬ 
dier’s daughter?” said Mrs. Howard a little sternly. 

“No, mother, nor that you are a soldier’s widow,” an¬ 
swered Dorothy quickly,“and now to give up Roger, too, just 
as we—as we—” her voice broke, and she paused. 

A crimson flush dyed the young man’s face, and boyishly, 
he threw himself on his knees beside her. 

Sweetheart, I know what you would say, and ’t is just as 
hard for me as it is for you. Yet it would be the act of a 
coward to remain at home when my country calls me. And 
I must go.” 

Thus it came about that the Thanksgiving dinner, which 
Dorothy had helped to prepare with such happy anticipations, 
was eaten with heavy hearts, and saddened faces. Bravely did 
Roger strive to dispel the gloom with his merry jokes, and 
hopeful talk of a speedy return, and when the turkey’s wish¬ 
bone fell to his share, he held it up with a gay laugh. 

Here s good luck, Dorothy! Come, let us make a wish,” 
said he, and with a sad little smile the girl complied. 

Snap! and away flew the top of the brittle bone, leaving an 
equal portion in the fingers of each. 

Does that mean that we have both lost or won?” asked 
Roger, holding firmly to the bit in his hand. 

“Lost, I think,” said Dorothy. 

“I’H not believe it,” cried Roger. “See! both pieces meas¬ 
ure exactly the same, which means that we will both have our 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


81 


wish. And to prove it is so, let us keep the pieces till we meet 
again,” and opening a small notebook, he placed between its 
covers the broken wishbone. 

“Till we meet again!” Ah, how many times in the long, 
long months of weary waiting that followed, did these words 
come back to Dorothy, and sorrowfully her heart cried out, 
“Shall we ever meet again?” 

In these days of peace and prosperity, when the story of 
the great Rebellion is such an old, old tale, when the graves 
of heroes are covered by the grasses of many seasons, and 
Southern battlefields have become parks and pleasure-grounds, 
how little does one realize the heartache and misery of that 
awful time! In thousands of broken homes were mothers, 
wives and daughters, who kept lonely vigils for dear ones who 
never came, and Mrs. Howard and Dorothy shared in this 
watching and waiting. For a short time Roger’s cheerful, 
hopeful letters comforted a little the lonely women, then sud¬ 
denly they ceased, and a long silence fell between them. 

The wheel of time rolled onward. The great struggle was 
over, and right prevailed. The cry of “victory” rang loudly 
throughout the land, yet alas! was echoed but faintly in the 
rebellious heart of Dorothy Howard. To her youthful imagi¬ 
nation, the sacrifice of her father and her lover seemed greater 
than the cause, and while grateful for her country’s victory, 
a tinge of bitterness was mingled with her joy. Hopeless of 
Roger’s return, she enshrined his image in her heart, and took 
up the burden of her daily life as best she could. As teacher of a 
little district school in the community in which she was born 
and brought up, her life flowed on quietly, and uneventfully, 
till ten long years had passed into oblivion, and one day Dor¬ 
othy awoke to find herself motherless. With the last tie 
severed which bound her to her childhood’s home, she remem¬ 
bered a promise once made to an aunt living in Boston, that 
should she ever be left alone she would come to her. In the 
complete change of environment which followed, Dorothy 
Howard learned to know the true inwardness of living. 

At twenty-eight, the impulsive, tender-hearted little country 



82 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


girl had developed into a beautiful woman, with a calm face 
and gentle manners. And amid the refinements and culture of 
her new home, she found the mental food which satisfied her. 
Loyal to the memory of her soldier lover, none had come to 
fill his place in her heart, and the days and the weeks moved 
onward. Another ten years have slipped away, and Dorothy 
Howard is Dorothy Howard still. 

“I believe that I am really growing old!” exclaimed she to 
herself one morning, as she spied the gleam of a white hair 
amid her dark brown braids. 

Outside a street organ began layin, “Twenty years ago!” 
and with its quaint melody filling her ears, the gates of memo¬ 
ry swung backward. Seating herself at her desk, she took 
from an inner drawer a little box. A small piece of a turkey’s 
wishbone fell from it as she pulled off the cover, while a voice 
seemed to breathe in her ear, “Till we meet again! Till we 
meet again!” 

Only a short time did Dorothy yield to these old-time memo¬ 
ries, for present duties recalled her to herself. With a gentle 
sigh, she pushed aside the little box, and drawing toward her 
paper, she began to write. For an hour her pen flew swiftly, 
then gathering up the accumulated sheets, she enclosed them 
in an envelope which she directed to a prominent publishing 
house in the city. 

The next day the busy editor of the Boston News was look¬ 
ing over his morning’s mail. Tearing open an evelope directed 
in a small feminine hand, he glanced hastily through its con¬ 
tents, till his eye at last read the name of the writer at the 
bottom of the last page, “Dorothy Howard.” 

It was a brief, well written article on home charities, a sub¬ 
ject in which Dorothy had become greatly interested. Some¬ 
thing in the article, or the writer’s name, seemed to hold the 
busy editor’s gaze, for several moments passed before he laid 
down the manuscript. 

Then again taking the envelope in his hand, he scrutinized 
sharply the writing. A small substance in one corner, at¬ 
tracted his notice, and giving the envelope a shake, there fell 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


83 


upon his desk a piece of a turkey’s wish-bone. Now what 
there was in this innocent bit of bone that was so alarming, 
a stranger would never guess, but if the gray-haired editor of 
the News had seen a ghost, he could not have looked more 
startled. For a brief space he stared earnestly at the wish¬ 
bone, then seizing a pen, he wrote swiftly the following note: 

TO DOROTHY HOWARD, 

Columbus Ave., Boston, Mass. 

Dear Madam:—Will you please call at the editorial room of 
the Boston News, at your earliest convenience, and oblige, 

Yours respectfully, 

EDITOR, “Boston News.” 

Twenty-four hours later, the door of the News office was 
pushed gently open. 

The editor glanced up eagerly, and as his eyes rested upon 
the face of this woman, he knew that the Dorothy Howard of 
his youth stood before him. 

“Good morning! Madam, pray be seated,” said he with an 
effort. 

But Dorothy stood as if rooted to the spot. In spite of the 
gray hair and mustache, the time-marred face looked strange¬ 
ly familiar to her, and with the sound of his voice a flood of 
memories swept over her. 

“You are—you are not-” she began. 

A glad light flashed over the man’s face. 

“Yes, Dorothy, you are right. I am Roger Whitney,” said 
he, holding out his hand. 

Dorothy did not move. 

“We thought you were killed,” said she, slowly. “Why did 
you not come back to us, or write?” 

“Forgive me, Dorothy, I did wrong not to have written you 
the truth. But I dared not come back to you like this.” As 
he spoke he swung around in his revolving chair and faced 
her. 






84 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The light of a great compassion filled Dorothy’s eyes when 
she saw that both legs were missing below the knees. Roger 
watched her face with a sad smile. 

“You see I am but half a man, Dorothy,” said he, “and I 
had no right to expect you to keep your promise.” 

With a tender impulse, that would not be checked, Dorothy 
moved swiftly to his side, and laying her hand on his shoulder, 
she said softly : 

“It would have made no difference, Roger.” 

Instantly the man’s fingers covered her own. 

“Is it too late now, Dorothy?” he questioned quickly. 

The noisy street cars, the tramping of feet in the passage¬ 
way, and the loud ticking of the office clock, nearly deadened 
that softly whispered “No!” yet Roger heard it, and was 
satisfied. 

The “No Admittance” card, that hung for the next hour 
upon the outer door of the editorial sanctum, proved indeed a 
guardian angel to the reunited lovers, for how could the hap¬ 
penings of twenty years be talked over in less time? 

“You see, Dorothy, when I found this bit of wish-bone, I 
knew it was you,” said Roger, taking it up from his desk with 
tender fingers. 

“Why! where did you find it?” said she in surprise. 

“In the article you sent me on Home Charities,” said Roger, 
smiling. 

Dorothy blushed. 

“I had been thinking of old times that morning, and had 
taken it from the little box where I had kept it so many years. 
It must have gotten into my paper by mistake, ’ ’ said she. 

“No,” said Roger, gravely, “fate sent it to me, and fate 
makes no mistakes.” Then from his poeketbook he took the 
other half of that wish-bone, and placing them side by side, 
he added: “And my wish has come true.” 

“So has mine,” answered Dorothy, sweetly. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


85 


LUCINDA’S CHRISTMAS VISION. 


“I wonder if I’ll have plush furniture and a velvet carpet 
in Heaven!” muttered Lucinda Holden, as she plied the 
broom energetically to the faded rag carpet on the floor of the 
best room in the old farmhouse. “Some folks believe you’ll 
get the thing you’ve wanted most on earth, and land knows 
I’ve just hungered and thirsted for beautiful furniture, and a 
carpet your feet ’ll sink way down in as you walk on’t, ever 
since I kept house. Jotham says what’s good enough for his 
mother ’s good enough for me, so rag carpets and cane bot¬ 
tomed chairs have been my lot for the past twenty years. I 
suppose I’m wicked and rebellious to complain, long’s I have 
enough to eat and a roof over my head; but somehow it takes 
more’n just that to make one satisfied with life. Suppose it 
does keep the breath in these perishin’ bodies of ourn, seems 
to me the soul needs somethin’ to keep it a-goin’, too, and 
beautiful things to look at, an’ to feel on an’ to use every day, 
too, is the kind of food some souls just about starve for.” Lu¬ 
cinda paused to catch her breath, and to shake a large braided 
mat out the front door. A wistful look was in the woman’s 
eyes as they glanced quickly over the glorious winter land¬ 
scape spread out before her. 

“The Lord favors beauty, too,” continued she, “ or He 
wouldn’t ’a’ made this earth so lovely to look at, an’ He didn’t 
believe in usin’ old things till one gets sick an’ tired of the 
sight on ’em, either. For four times a year He just strips the 
whole earth of its worn-out finery, an’ rigs her up in new, an’ 
always more beautiful than the last. Goodness knows what 
I’d do if I couldn’t feast my eyes on the Lord’s handiwork. 
Just the same, ’t would be mighty soul-satisfying when one’s 
shut up in the house a good part of the time, to look at some¬ 
thin’ besides mother Holden’s faded rag carpets an’ patch- 
work bed-quilts.” 




86 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Hello! Mis’ Holden,” called out a voice, as she paused in 
her soliloquy and was about to close the door. “Here’s a let¬ 
ter for ye. Been down to the village, an’ long’s I was a-goin’ 
by, thought I’d bring it to ye.” 

“Much obliged, Mr. Thompson,” answered Lucinda, taking 
the letter from the man’s outstretched hand. “How’s Mis’ 
Thompson’s rheumatis ’ ? ” 

“Fair to middlin’, fair to middlin’, Mis’ Holden,” answered 
the man, stamping about in the snow, and swinging his arms 
back and forth for warmth. “Jotham pretty smart this win¬ 
ter?” 

“Pretty fair, Mr. Thompson. Get a little spleeny once in a 
while, but nothin’ to speak on,” said Lucinda, impatiently 
fingering the letter in her hand. 

“Haint got no bad news, have ye?” questioned the man 
curiously. 

“I haven’t read my letter, yet, Mr. Thompson,” answered 
Lucinda with dignity. 

“Sho! now, so ye haint,” said he, with a good-natured grin. 
“Well, I’ll go along an’ gin ye a chance,” and swinging about 
he tramped off through the snow with a jolly whistle. 

Hastening into the house, Lucinda piled fresh logs on the 
kitchen fireplace, and, seating herself in a comfortable, old- 
fashioned rocker, tore open her letter. 

“New York, Dec.—, 18—. 

“Dear Cousin Lucinda (she read aloud):—I am coming to 
the wilds of Vermont to spend Christmas with you and Jotham. 
So kill the fatted calf (that is the old hen-turkey), make some 
of those good, old-fashioned pumpkin pies, and let us make 
merry as we did when we were children and I spent my sum¬ 
mers with you at the dear, old farm. To tell the truth, dear 
coz, I’m tired of fuss and feathers, fashion and frivolity, and 
long for the simplicity of country life, and the sight of your 
dear, good face. So with this hope to sustain me till I realize 
my desire, I’ll say “Au revoir.” 

“Your affectionate cousin, 

“MILDRED ROBERTS.” 


/ 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


87 


“Hum!” muttered Lucinda, a little dryly as she folded her 
letter and gazed musingly into the fire, “Milly must be either 
bilious or in love to want to leave her beautiful home and 
come up here in the dead o’ winter. Seems sort o’ queer now 
’t I think on ’t that she never married, an’ she’s a good deal 
past thirty, too. Well, she’s had plenty o’ money, and a fine 
house filled with beautiful things, all her life, an’ perhaps she’s 
just as well without a husband to tell her when to buy new 
carpets an’ things;” an odd smile crept around Lucinda’s 
mouth as she paused. 

The sound of sleigh-bells aroused her from her revery, and 
springing up she hastened to the door, just as a stylish looking 
woman sprang from the sleigh and came swiftly toward the 
house. 

“Here I am, cousin Lucy, three weeks ahead of time!” cried 
she, embracing Lucinda affectionately. “I just couldn’t wait, 
after I had decided to come, so foHowed my letter immediate¬ 
ly. Oh! how good it seems to see the dear old farm again.” 
Swift tears sprang to Mildred’s eyes as she spoke. 

Lucinda watched her cousin gravely. 

“I’m real glad to see you, Milly, though I’m sort o’ sur¬ 
prised you should ’a’ wanted to come to this dreary place in 
the winter, an’ leave your gay city.” 

“I’m tired of its gaiety, Lucy, fearfully tired,” answered 
Mildred, wearily. 

“Is it your liver or your heart, Milly?” said Lucinda, with 
a sharp look into her cousin’s eyes. 

Mildred colored, though she glanced up with a merry laugh. 

“A little of both, perhaps, Lucy,” said she with a slight 
catch in her voice. 

“I kind of thought so,” said Lucinda, quietly. 

There was a strong resemblance between the two cousins, 
both having the same fine, brown eyes, dark wavy hair, and 
the same cast of features. Yet the environment of each had 
made them seem like creatures of different worlds. 

Mildred Roberts’s straight figure, with its graceful curves, 
was set off by her rich and fashionable travelling dress. While 



88 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


her becomingly arranged hair, smooth, round cheeks, and clear 
eyes gave her a youthful, girlish look, which belied her years. 
Lucinda Holden was but five years older than her cousin Milly, 
yet she looked fifteen. Her figure was thin and shrunken, with 
a slight stoop of the shoulders. Silver threads had made their 
home among those dark-brown tresses, and her eyes had a 
tired, yearning look, that spoke of the soul hunger within. 
Mildred’s sharp eyes followed her about, and she thought to 
herself with a sudden pang: 

“How old cousin Lucinda has grown!” 

It was but a few days later that something happened in that 
quiet household. Something so unusual, that Jotham Holden’s 
slow wits could hardly grasp the situation. 

Lucinda was down sick with a fever. With flushed cheeks 
and brilliant eyes, she tossed restlessly upon her pillow, mut¬ 
tering incoherently of “Velvet carpets, plush chairs, the 
Heavenly city, and the Lord’s handiwork.” 

Such a jumble of words, with no sense nor meaning for 
Milly or Jotham! With all the speed he was capable of, Jotham 
Holden started for the doctor, while Milly installed herself as 
her cousin’s nurse. As she watched eagerly for the doctor’s 
arrival, she was astonished to see, instead of the usual country 
practitioner in his old-fashioned turnout, a stylish-looking 
sleigh pause before the house, and a tall, handsome man of 
middle age walk briskly up to the door. 

Something strangely familiar in the man’s looks caused Mil¬ 
dred’s heart to throb wildly, as she opened the door. Lifting 
his hat the man’s eyes met her own, and the recognition was 
mutual. With somewhat heightened color, he held out his 
hand, saying: 

“This is a surprise, indeed, Miss Roberts, to meet you in 
this out-of-the-way place after so many years. How does it 
happen?” 

“Mrs. Holden is my cousin, and I have come to spend Christ¬ 
mas with her, Dr. Alan,” answered Mildred, shaking hands 
gravely. “And what brings you to this part of the world; I 
thought you had gone abroad?” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


89 


“Force of circumstances causes many changes in one’s 
plans, Miss Roberts, and the death of Dr. Whitney, who was 
an uncle of mine, was the primary cause of my coming to this 
little country town, where, for the present, I seem to be the 
only practicing physician,” answered he. Then with a soft 
change of tone, he added: “Can I see my patient now?” 

In spite of her anxiety for her cousin, Mildred’s mind was in 
a tumult of emotion at this unexpected revival of a past in 
which this man was the principal figure. A past that had been 
both bitter and sweet. Sweet with the tenderness of a deeper 
love than her proud heart would acknowledge. Bitter, be¬ 
cause of that fatal mistake which had so nearly wrecked her 
life’s happiness. Could it be that fate was to give her one 
more chance? 

Beside Lucinda’s sick bed the two met daily, and with un¬ 
tiring skill and devotion started anew the life current in that 
tired frame. 

Never, in the days of her youth and belledom, when sur¬ 
rounded by wealth, the center of an admiring throng, had 
Milly seemed so adorably sweet and womanly, in the eyes of 
Dr. Howard Alan, as she did while ministering to her sick 
cousin. And the woman’s heart passed unreservedly into the 
keeping of this grave-eyed physician, as she worked by his side 
through those anxious days. So they both knew that the mis¬ 
takes of the past were forgotten, while the future held for 
them a joy unspeakable. 

“I’ve had such a strange dream, Milly,” said Lucinda, a few 
days after the fever had left her. “I thought I had gone to 
Heaven to spend Christmas with the Lord. It was such a 
beautiful city, I just walked along admiring everything. Sud¬ 
denly I came to a grand mansion, with a shining doorplate on 
the front of it, an ’ feelin ’ sort o ’ curious I stopped to see who 
lived there. An’ there, in gold letters, was my own name, 
‘Lucinda Holden.’ Almost as if someone was pushin’ me, I 
walked straight into the house.” 

“0 Milly! I never’ll forget how lovely it was. Such soft, 
velvet carpets; your feet went down deep at every step. Such 



90 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


beautiful chairs, all cushioned with plusli an’ si lining silks. 
An’ books an’ flowers an’ pictures everywhere. I just looked 
an’ looked, till my eyes fairly ached with the glory of it. 
Then, all at once, I saw someone standin’ near me. So kind 
an’ gentle, so tender an’ sweet was that face, Milly, I knew 
it was the Lord. I sank down upon my knees before Him, an’ 
cried: 

“ 1 It is so beautiful here, dear Lord, let me stay.’ ” 

“With a smile so sad an’ sweet that it pierced me through 
an’ through, He answered, softly: ‘Not yet,’—an’ then I 
awoke.” 

The tears were running swiftly down Lucinda’s cheeks, 
though her pale lips tried to smile as she added, quaintly: 

“So you see, Milly, it’s sort of hard to have to come back 
to mother Holden’s rag carpets again.” 

A great flood of compassion filled Mildred’s heart, as her 
cousin’s soul lay bare before her. Oh! how blind she had been! 
with a silent kiss, she passed swiftly from the room and out 
into the kitchen, where Jotham sat whittling a stick before the 
fire. 

“Jotham Holden, you ’ve very nearly starved that wife of 
yours to death!” said she, in a fierce whisper. 

“Not as I knowed on, cousin Milly. There’s always been 
plenty o’ victuals in my house,” answered Jotham, with digni¬ 
ty. 

“Victuals, victuals!” sniffed Milly, scornfully. “Oh, yes, 
victuals to feed her body, I know. But what is there in this 
great empty barn of a house to feed a beauty-loving soul like 
Lucinda ? ’ ’ 

Jotham’s eyes t followed the sweep of Milly’s arm, as she 
waved it tragically about, then coming back to her excited 
face, he said, slowly: 

“So ye think it ’s Lucy’s soul I’ve starved, do ye. Well, 
I’ve thought for some time there was somethin’ the matter 
with Lucinda’s in’ards, but I never supposed ’t was a starved 
soul. Now what’s the prescription for ’t, cousin Milly?” 

Mildred’s eyes flashed. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


91 


“New wall paper, fresh paint and whitewash; then new 
carpets, new furniture, plenty of books, pictures and flowers,” 
said she, breathlessly. 

Jotham whistled, softly. 

“Guess you think money ’s a-plenty round these parts, 
cousin Milly,” said he. 

“But I’ve got more than I need, Jotham, and I’d willingly 

share-” eagerly began Mildred, when Jotham interrupted 

her. 

“Oh! I aint so poor, cousin Milly, that I need charity yet. 
So, if your prescription ’s the cure for what’s ailin’ Lucy, I 
don’t know but we’d better try it,” said he, quietly, going on 
with his whittling. 

On Christmas day Lucinda was to leave her room for the first 
time. With a happy, excited face, Milly dressed her cousin 
in the dainty, new wrapper she had made for her. 

“How you have chirked up lately, cousin Milly!” said Lu¬ 
cinda, watching her curiously. Nussin’ seems to agree with 
ye. Guess you an’ Dr. Alan ’d better go into partnership.” 

Mildred blushed, and laughed softly. 

“That’s just what we are going to do, Lucy,” said she. 

“Hum!” said Lucinda, dryly, “so he’s the man, is he?” 

“Yes, dear coz, he ’s the man,” answered Milly, gaily. 

A little later, as Jotham Holden lifted his wife’s slight figure 
in his strong arms and carried her into the sitting-room, it 
seemed to Lucinda’s dazzled eyes that her dream had come 
true. Dainty colored paper covered the walls. A rich, soft 
carpet was on the floor, and a comfortable couch, bright and 
luxuriant; while easy chairs were scattered about; a bookcase 
filled with such a wealth of reading, and on a stand beside the 
couch where Lucinda lay was a bouquet of lovely flowers. 

“0 cousin Milly! how can I thank-” cried Lucinda, but 

Mildred stopped her. 

“Thank Jotham, Lucy, dear, for he has done it all. Every 
bit of it,” said she, generously. 





92 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The look in his wife’s eyes, and the clasp of those pale fin¬ 
gers around his own, was a revelation to Jotham Holden that 
he never forgot. 

“I guess I don’t want to go to Heaven just yet, cousin Mil- 
ly, ’ ’ said Lucinda, with a misty smile. 


“GIT UP AND GIT.” 


Don’t sit with idle folded hands 
And discontented heart, 

Because you’ve neither gold or lands, 

Nor drive your own dog-cart. 

But stir yourself, “git up and git,” 

And do your level best, 

E’en though you never make a hit, 

Your chance is as good as the rest. 

There’s plenty in this world for all 
Who have the will to try, 

And though alas, so many fall, 

Because they do, must I? 

And though we often lack the grit, 

To pull against the tide, 

Just make a start “git up and git.” 

The world is broad and wide. 

And if at first our efforts fail 
To win dame Fortune’s smile, 

And the shore towards which we’ve set our sail, 
Seems many a weary mile. 

Don’t lower your sail the smallest bit, 

But struggle bravely on, 

Renew your strength, “git up and git,” 

Till the race is finally won. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


93 


KESIAH’S INDEPENDENCE. 


It was the day before the Fourth, and Kesiah Morse stood 
in the door-way of the old farm-house kitchen, and watched 
her son Ezra drive slowly down the rocky hillside. His wife 
Martha looked back and waved her hand, while the two boys, 
John and Nathan, seated in the back of the buggy, with their 
legs dangling over the edge, shouted “Good-bye, Grandma,” 
at the top of their childish voices. A lonesome look crept into 
Kesiah’s faded blue eyes as she turned back to the empty 
house. Queen Elizabeth, the great white cat, came and rubbed 
her snowy sides against Kesiah’s dress without receiving her 
usual pat, and the stately black rooster paced back and forth 
before the kitchen door in unmolested dignity. A strange 
mood had taken possession of Kesiah, and her usual cheerful 
patience had forsaken her. Glancing around the sunny kit¬ 
chen: where for long years she had toiled over her homely tasks, 
a sudden distaste to the familiar surroundings swept over her. 

“Folks seem to think I’m good for nothin’ but to stay to 
home and work,” she muttered discontentedly. “Ezra and 
Martha ride awaj^ ’thout ever askin’ me if I’d like to go, too; 
all agoin’ to spend Independence day at the village. ’Spose 
they think I’m too old to care ’bout sich things, but I guess 
I’ve as much spirit as any on ’em if I be goin’ on seventy- 
year-old,” and as if to emphasize this fact she seized a broom 
and made a sudden dash at the old rooster whose red comb 
was thrust inquisitively inside the open door. 

“Brother Caleb’s folks down to the city aint never asked 
me to spend Independence day with them,” continued Kesiah, 
talking aloud to herself as women who are much alone, are 
apt to do when excited, “and the Fourth of July is his birth¬ 
day, too. Dear me, I remember it as plain as if ’twas only 
yesterday, the day Caleb was born. I was a great girl, six- 




94 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


teen-year-old, and Cale was sich a cute little baby. I wanted 
mother to name him George Washington, ’cause he was born 
Independence day, but mother was set to have him called Caleb 
after Uncle Caleb Brown, and so ’twas. Well, Caleb was a 
smart leetle boy and growed up to be a smart man, and is 
real forehanded, too. I aint no call to feel hard toward 
brother Caleb if he don’t come to see his old sister very often, 
he’s alius sent me and the children a remembrance every 
Christmas since he left home, and when Jotham died he was 
mighty good to me.” 

The sudden rumble of wheels aroused her from her muttered 
soliloquy, and stepping to the door she saw a two seated demo¬ 
crat wagon, drawn by a stout farm horse, pause before the 
house. 

“Hello! Aunt Kesiah,” called out a rough good-natured 
looking man, sitting on the front seat, “where’s Ezra?” 

“He’s taken Martha and the boys and gone down to the 
village to spend Independence day with Jane’s folks. Where 
be you all a-goin’, Mr. Jones?” answered Kesiah going out to 
the wagon and shaking hands with Mrs. Jones who sat on 
the seat beside her husband with a fat baby in her arms, 
while on the back seat a pleasant faced old lady was sand¬ 
wiched in between two youngsters. 

“Oh! we are all out on a regular spree, Aunt Kesiah,” 
laughed the jolly farmer. “Fourth of July don’t come but 
once a year, and I told Susan we might as well hitch up and 
go down to the village and celebrate. Why didn’t Ezra take 
you along, too, Aunt Kesiah?” A little flush crept into 
Kesiah’s wrinkled cheeks as she answered hastily, 

Ezra’s buggy aint got but one seat, so there wa’n’t no 
room for me to ride, and then someone ought to stay to home 
and look after things, and I aint much of a hand to go gali- 
vanting round the country any way.” 

Now Mis Morse, it do seem too bad to leave you here all 
alone two whole days,” spoke up Grandma Jones’s quivering 
voice, “aint you afeared to stay?” 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


95 


“Sakes alive, no,” answered Kesiah bravely, “there aint 
nobody a-goin to tech me.” 

“Well, we must be a-movin’, so good-bye, Aunt Kesiah, be 
sure and lock up tight, so no one won’t carry you off afore 
Ezra gets back,’’ said farmer Jones, and starting up nis horse 
they soon disappeared down the hill. 

Kesiah stood a few moments and watched the cloud of dust 
that hid the receding wagon, while the smile faded from her 
face and a strange, wistful expression took its place. With a 
sigh she turned back toward the house, but as she reached 
the door-way she suddenly sank down on the step and covered 
her face with her hands. A storm of feeling swept over the 
poor old frame that seemed to shake the very foundations of 
her being. The long years of toil and neglect, the petty trials 
of her daily life, the unsatisfied yearnings after brighter days, 
seemed to rise up in one black torrent of bitterness and des¬ 
pair, and the self-control of years was for the time completely 
swept away. 

“Kesiah Morse, you are an old fool,” she burst out at last, 
starting up and brushing away the tears with a trembling 
hand, “a-sittin’ here and a-bawlin’ ’cause ye feel sort of lone¬ 
some like. Any one would ’spose ye hadn’t a right to go where 
ye like. There aint no string tied to ye, why don’t ye go some¬ 
where if ye want to?” the last words were epoken so loud 
and fierce, that Queen Elizabeth who was dozing in the sun¬ 
shine on the door-mat, sprang up and scud around the house, 
giving a backward look of alarm at her mistress’s unusual 
manner. As the echo of her impulsive words rang in her ears, 
a new thought seemed to form itself in her mind, and a look 
of energy and decision came into her eyes and flushed her thin 
cheeks. 

“I’ve just a good mind to do it as ever I had to eat,” she 
exclaimed excitedly. “I guess Caleb’s folks will be just as 
glad to see me even if they aint sent me no special invite; may¬ 
be they forgot it. I’ve got my hen money, and that five-dol- 
lar gold piece Caleb sent me last Christmas. It’s only a mile 
down to the cross roads, and I guess I can foot it that much, 



96 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


and wait there till the stage comes along that will carry me 
to the depot. I’ll get home again by the time Ezra and Martha 
do, and won’t they be surprised to hear all about Caleb’s grand 
house and fine city wife?” 

With the pleased enthusiasm of a child, Kesiah bustled 
about tidying up the kitchen and putting the house to rights; 
then donning her best black alpaca gown, and tying on a 
bonnet of a style many seasons old, she grasped her old- 
fashioned carpet-bag in her hand and started down the hill. 

The hot July sunshine poured down on the bent figure, as 
Kesiah plodded patiently along the dusty road, pausing now 
and then to wipe the perspiration from her wrinkled face, and 
to ease her tired limbs. Ephraim Sawyer, the stage driver, 
peered down from his lofty seat on the stage-coach as he 
caught sight of the strange figure standing at the cross-roads, 
waving a faded carpet bag to attract his attention, and with 
a great flourish he brought his horses to a standstill. 

“By thunder!” he exclaimed as he recognized the old lady, 

“If it aint old Mis’ Morse; where on ’arth can she be a-goin’ 
all alone. Hello? Aunt Kesiah, did you want to ride ’long of 
me?” he added as she drew near the coach. 

“I want you to take me to the depot Mr. Sawyer. I’m a- 
goin’ down to the city,” answered Kesiah trying to climb up 
the high step to the coach door. 

Certain, certain, Mis ’ Morse, ’ ’ said Ephraim jumping down 
and lifting the small figure into the roomy coach. “Aint you 
’mazin’ smart to be a-goin’ down to the city all alone?” 

“Well, I don’t know, but I do feel pretty peart these days,” 
answered Kesiah, settling herself in her seat with quite the 
air of a grand dame riding out in her coach and four. “I’m 
a-goin’ to see brother Caleb’s folks.” 

“Sho, now you don’t say,” said Ephraim looking curiously 
at the old lady’s complacent face, “Why it’s nigh on to twen¬ 
ty year since you went to the city afore, aint it?” 

“Yes, ’tis, Mr. Sawyer, and I think it’s about time I went 
again,” said Kesiah with unusual spirit. 

Ephraim whistled softly to himself as he climbed up to his 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


97 


seat, and with a loud “Get along there?” to his horses, he 
drove through the country roads with his solitary passenger. 
As the lumbering coach drew up to the depot, the sound of 
a steam whistle and the rumble of cars was heard, and 
Ephraim throwing open the coach door helped Kesiah out on 
the platform. 

“Here’s the train, Mis’ Morse, you’d better get right aboard 
and buy your ticket of the conductor,” said he hurrying the 
old lady through the crowd; and Kesiah, bewildered by the 
noise and confusion, grasped him by the arm and allowed him 
to help her on the train. 

Settling herself comfortably in the first vacant seat, Kesiah 
drew in a long breath of pleasurable excitement. At last she 
was going somewhere. The whirling landscape and the 
strange faces of the people about her interested and amused 
her. Utterly unconscious of her own quaint figure, or the 
curious looks cast in her direction, she rode along with the 
blissful expression of a happy child. A touch on her arm, and 
the conductor’s voice saying, “Ticket, madam,” aroused her 
from her revery. Into the depths of the faded carpet bag 
Kesiah plunged her hand, in search of the old wallet that held 
the long hoarded hen money and the cherished five-dollar gold 
piece. The impatient conductor drummed on the arm of the 
seat as he waited for Kesiah’s ticket; but when, after a lengthy 
search she rose pale and trembling, and stood gazing at him 
in frightened silence a frown gathered on his face. 

“Come, come, madam, your ticket,” he said, gruffly. 

“I aint got no ticket, and I’ve lost all on my money,” said 
Kesiah, in a quivering voice, the tears of disappointment and 
fright starting to her eyes, “I’ 11 get right off here,” and she 
tried to step out into the aisle. 

“Sit down, madam, you can’t get off here, this is a through 
express and don’t stop before we get to Boston,” said the 
conductor, pushing her back into her seat, “Why didn’t you 
buy a ticket before you took the train?” 

“Ephraim said I hadn’t got time, so I thought the money 
would do just as well, and the land knows what’s become on 



98 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


%” answered Kesiah, beginning a fresh search for the missing 
wallet. “Brother Caleb will make it all right though if you’ll 
let me go on to Bosting. I was a-goin’ to spend Independence 
day with his folks. Do you know Caleb Brown? He’s in the 
butcherin’ business and has got dreadful forehanded and owns 
a grand house, and folks say he keeps two servant gals to wait 
on his wife; not that I think she is slack or lazy, but I don’t 
suppose she was brought up to work, bein’ a city gal, you 
know. ’ ’ 

A faint smile crept around the conductor’s stern mouth, as 
he listened to Kesiah’s trembling voice and looked into her 
honest blue eyes. 

* 4 Well, well, madam, it can’t be helped now, so don’t wor¬ 
ry,” he said more kindly, and passed on. 

The pleasure of the journey was gone for Kesiah, however, 
and a troubled, anxious expression settled over her aged face. 
Many a curious glance and amused smile was cast at the 
simple-hearted old lady, yet no one spoke to her, or tried to 
cheer her loneliness, or ease her distress of mind. As the train 
rushed into the depot, and the roar of the great city filled her 
ears, Kesiah trembled and grew faint with excitement. Jostled 
about and pushed this way and that by the surging crowd 
and almost deafened by the cries of the importunate hackmen, 
she made her way to the street. 

“I 'most wish I hadn’t ’a’ come,” she muttered to herself, 
“and I can’t just seem to think now where brother Caleb lives. 
Seems to me ’twas some street that made you think of the 
landin’ of the Pilgrims. Christopher Columbus street, or 
somethin’ like that. Dear me, I do believe I’m a-growin’ for¬ 
getful. Say, sonny, do you know where Christopher Columbus 
is?” she asked of a ragged little newsboy who stood on the 
curbstone. 

“Dead ’fore you was born,” answered he with a saucy grin. 

“I mean the street named for him,” continued Kesiah, 
anxiously. 

“Aint none,” said he, and thrusting a paper up into her 
face, he shouted in an ear-splitting voice, “Boston Herald!” 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


99 


With an indignant look at the rude urchin, Kesiah hastened 
along the street, still muttering softly to herself. Footsore 
and weary, exhausted with the heat and her long fast, she had 
nearly reached the limit of her endurance when she found her¬ 
self before one of the entrances of Boston Common. At sight 
of the great trees whose cool shadows lay across the broad 
walks, the flower beds gay with blossoms, and the glitter of 
the spray from the fountains, it seemed to poor Kesiah like a 
glimpse of Paradise. Dragging her tired limbs through the 
gateway, she wandered slowly along till she came to a secluded 
corner, and dropping down on a bench beneath the shade of a 
massive tree, she breathed a sigh of utter exhaustion. 

* ‘ I’m clean beat out, ’ ’ she muttered, faintly; then before she 
knew it she sank into a huddled heap on the narrow bench, 
and the sleep of old age and weariness closed her eyes. 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and the city 
clocks had rung out the hour of six, and still Kesiah slept on. 
Dusty and travel-stained, her shabby old bonnet fallen back 
on her shoulders, and her gray hair blown about her pale 
face, she was a pitiful looking object when the careless eyes 
of a burly policeman fell upon her. 

“Dead drunk,” he muttered, coarsely, going up to the pros¬ 
trate figure and giving it a rude shake. 

Kesiah opened her eyes and started to her feet, but her 
trembling limbs refused to support her, and with a cry of 
alarm she sank back. 

“Got it bad, old gal, haint ye. Well, I know a good place 
for just such critters as you,” said the man grasping her by 
the arm. 

“Don’t you tech me, Mr. Policeman. I’am agoin’-to spend 
Independence day with brother Caleb’s folks. He lives on 
Christopher Columbus street,” cried Kesiah, shrinking back 
in affright. 

“Oh, come now, old woman, that won’t wash. You’ve come 
to town to have a nice little jag all to yourself and celebrate 


> 

> ) ) 



100 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


the glorious Fourth. But you have to pay for such little 
frolics, you know, so come along,’’ and he pulled her roughly 
to her feet. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Policeman, but I can’t 
pay for nothin ’ for I’ve lost all my money. Oh, please, let me 
go to brother Caleb’s, he’s Caleb Brown, the butcher,” wailed 
Kesiah, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to 
pull away from the rough hand that held her. In her fright 
Kesiah almost shrieked her brother’s name, and a stout, mid¬ 
dle-aged man who was walking slowly along the walk near 
by, paused and looked in the direction of the sound. With a 
sudden, indignant exclamation he hastened toward them, and 
pushing the policeman aside he bent over Kesiah, saying, 

“What are you about, man? This isn’t a drunk; the wo¬ 
man is sick,” then as his eyes scanned her features more 
closely, he cried hoarsely, “My God, it’s my own sister 
Kesiah. ’ ’ 

With a glad cry of joy and relief the poor woman threw out 
her arms to her brother. 

“I’ve come to spend Independence with you brother Caleb 
and I lost my wallet and I didn’t know where Christopher 

Columbus street was, and-” but the strain had been too 

much, and for the first time in her quiet, healthy life, Kesiah 
Morse fainted away. To call a carriage and lift the insensible 
woman into it, was the work of but a few moments and ten¬ 
derly did Caleb Brown hold his poor old sister in his arms 
during the short ride to his stately home on Columbus Avenue. 
Conscious-stricken and full of remorse for the long years of 
neglect, he vowed to himself that if it were not too late al¬ 
ready, all that money, care and loving attention could do to 
make up for the past, should be lavished on the dear sister who 
had been a mother to him in his boyhood. 

When Kesiah opened her eyes and found herself on a soft 
couch in a luxuriously furnished room, with loving faces bend- 
ing over her, while tender hands ministered to her wants, a 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


101 


smile of perfect happiness lit up her weary face, and without 
a word she fell into a deep sleep that lasted till the next 
morning. 

Late in the evening of the next day Ezra Morse drove slowly 
up the hill to the old farm-house door, grumbling crossly be¬ 
cause there was no light left burning for their late arrival. 
As he opened the door the silence of an empty house sent a 
strange chill through him, and striking a match he stepped 
into his mother’s room. The smooth, white bed stared back 
at him in undisturbed quiet, and no trace of his mother was 
in the room or about the house. On the bureau lay the old 
wallet containing Kesiah’s little wealth, where in her haste 
she had laid it and then forgotten it. Thoroughly alarmed, 
Ezra jumped into his wagon and drove in hot haste back 
toward the village, but ’ere he had gained the cross-roads he 
was met by the old stage coach. 

“Hello, Ezra,” cried out Ephraim as Ezra was driving past. 
“What’s your rush? I’ve got something for you, so hold on 
a minute.” Ezra drew up his horse, and held out his hand 
impatiently for the small yellow envelope in Ephraim’s hand. 

“Has your mother got home yet?” asked Ephraim, peering 
curiously at Ezra through the dim light of the summer evening. 

“Got home from where, Eph? have you seen her? I can’t 
find her anywhere,” cried Ezra, in excited alarm. 

“She went down to the city yesterday morning to your 
Uncle Caleb Brown’s. I took her to the depot myself and put 
her on the cars. Why don’t you read your telegram and see 
if it aint from your uncle?” 

By the flickering light of a match, Ezra read the brief mes¬ 
sage telling him that his mother was safe in her brother’s 
home, and with a muttered, “Thank God!” he turned his 
horse’s head homeward. 

Kesiah’s Independence day was a happy one after all, and 
each member of her brother’s household vied with the other 
in doing something for the comfort or pleasure of the dear 
old lady. Many long weeks passed away before she went back 
to the old farm, and Ezra and Martha learned in her absence 




102 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


to value her at her real worth. So when her pleasant visit 
was over and she returned to her simple country life, her last 
years were made smooth and bright by more tender care and 
thoughtful interest on the part of her children. 


THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


Years have passed since a little child, 

I first heard the whip-poor-will song, 
Then happy faces round me smiled, 

That I have missed so long. 

And now once more their plaintive tune, 
As I sit in the twilight here, 

And watch o’er the hills the rising moon, 
Falls softly on my ear. 

And a chord of memory in my heart, 
Awakes with a tender thrill, 

And thoughts of the past will often start 
At the sound of the whip-poor-will. 

The old farm house I can seem to see, 
That stands at the top of the hill, 

And Grandma’s face as she smiles at me, 
Comes back with the whip-poor-will. 

For many times in the days of yore, 

I have sat on the old door-sill, 

In the twilight hours, and o’er and o’er, 
Heard the song of the whip-poor-will. 

And now though years have passed away, 
Yet in my heart there still, 

Lingers sweet memories, that ne’r decay, 
Brought back by the whip-poor-will. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


103 


A HALLOWE’EN EOMANCE. 


October was going out in a blaze of glory. The air was warm 
and hazy with golden sunshine, that made the georgeous 
foliage beautiful beyond description. Joyce Freeland had 
spent the short afternoon in the woods, gathering great 
branches of gold and crimson leaves, to carry back with her 
to her home in the city. Poor Joyce! her brief vacation was 
over, and the next day she must say good bye to the dear old 
farm, kind Aunt Mary and Cousin John, and resume once more 
her position behind the counter in one of the large dry goods 
stores, in the city of B- while one and another of her fel¬ 

low clerks had taken brief rests at seashore or mountain. Not 
till October was well on its way was she allowed her freedom, 
when, with all the speed possible she had hastened to the 
old farm, when she had passed so many happy seasons. 
Life was anything but a holiday with Joyce Freeland, 
for fate had left her to guide, single-handed, her barque 
on the ocean of life. Naturally healthy in mind and body, 
with a cheerful disposition that made the most of the small 
pleasures that came in her way, and caused her to bear patient¬ 
ly her daily crosses, Joyce had plodded along, ever looking 
ahead to brighter days. But the unusual heat of the past few 
months, and her long confinement in the close store, had told 
severely on the girl’s splendid constitution. Never had she 
looked at life through so gloomy a vision as on this delightful 
afternoon, as she wandered through the woods, gathering rich 
spoils of nature’s handiwork. Never had the prospect of her 
daily toil in the busy store seemed so obnoxious to her, or the 
winter months stretched out so endless and dreary. Long 
years of the same dull routine of daily duties seemed to spread 
out before her eyes, as she strove to pierce the future, and 
the prospect was anything but alluring. 





104 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The weary face of one grown old in the service of her em¬ 
ployer rose up before her; one whose youth and beauty had 
swiftly faded in the grinding treadmill of work, till all per¬ 
sonality was lost in the mechanical going through with the 
labor of the day. How long would it be before she too would 
look old and gray, thought Joyce, unconsciously passing her 
hand over the smooth bands of purple black hair that covered 
her head, or the brightness fade from her dark eyes, and her 
round cheeks grow hollow and wrinkled? A little sigh parted 
the rosy lips at this thought, for Joyce, like most girls of twen¬ 
ty was not wholly unconscious of her own claims to beauty. 

The early twilight was gathering when Joyce walked into 
the farmhouse kitchen, laden with her spoils of the forest. A 
blazing fire of logs burned in the great fireplace, and lit up 
the long low room with a cheerful glow. The supper-table was 
spread, and the tea simmered on the hot bricks before the fire. 
Joyce glanced around the empty kitchen for the rosy faced 
maid of all work, but Nora was nowhere in sight. A low 
giggle, however, disclosed her whereabouts, and smiling a little 
in girlish sympathy, Joyce stepped into the roomy pantry. 
Bending over a pan of water, in which were floating what 
seemed to Joyce s astonished eyes small bits of paper, was 
Nora, laughing softly to herself. 

What are you doing, Nora?” asked Joyce, looking over the 
girl’s shoulder. Nora jumped and screamed. 

“Sure, Miss Joyce, how ye frightened me,” said she with 

a giggle. “ ’Tis only a bit of a trick I’m after tryin’; a Hal- 
lowe ’en trick, Miss. ’ ’ 

Is it Hallowe en to-night Nora? I had forgetten all about 
it,” said Joyce. 

“Deed it is, Miss Joyce, and many’s the ghost that’ll walk 
the night,” answered Nora in a tragic whisper. 

But what is this trick in the pan of water, Nora?” 
said Joyce laughing. ‘What are those bits of paper for?” 

“’Tis the letters of ye’re sweetheart’s name that’ll stay at 
the top, Miss Joyce, an’ the rest will go to the bottom of the 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


105 


pan,” explained Nora, blushing and peeping at the pan of wa¬ 
ter, where were floating three tiny bits of paper, the rest 
having all sunk. 

Joyce looked hard at the letters and read: “P. A. T.” at 
which Nora giggled again, and ran into the kitchen. John 
Somers coming in with a pail of foamy milk in each hand, 
heard the laughing voices of the two girls, and setting down 
his pails, came and looked over Joyce’s shoulder as she still 
bent over the pan of water. 

“Oh! Cousin John,” cried Joyce glancing up at the tall 
figure, her black eyes dancing with fun, “Nora has been try¬ 
ing a Hallowe’en trick to see who her sweetheart is.” 

“Did she find out?” said John laughing. 

“So it seems,” laughed Joyce, pointing to the letters that 
still lay on top of the water. 

“P. A. T. Pat”, read John aloud. As he spoke the outer 
door opened, and a big jolly faced Irishman stepped into the 
room. 

“Did you want me, Sor?” asked he, hearing his master’s 
voice. 

“No, Pat,” said John laughing, “but I think Nora does.” 
A merry peal of laughter burst from the lips of the two girls, 
while Pat stood in the doorway looking bashfully at the blush¬ 
ing Nora. 

“’Tis a pail of water I’m after wantin’ Pat,” cried that 
quick-witted damsel, thrusting a pail into Pat’s hand, “ so get 
along wid ye;” and Pat hastened to do her bidding, while the 
others gathered around the supper table laughing merrily. 

John Somers was not a farmer from choice but from necessi¬ 
ty. The youngest of five boys, it had fallen to his lot to care 
for his widowed mother, and to look after the farm. Ambi¬ 
tious for a higher education and a broader life than that which 
fate had allotted him, he had at first bitterly rebelled against 
the circumstances which restricted him; yet upright and 
honorable, and bound to his aged mother by the tenderest of 
ties, he had smothered his ambition, taken up his burden and 
bided his time. So the years had sped, till at the age of 



106 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


thirty-five John Somers had grown to look at life seriously 
and earnestly, realizing that in duties fulfilled the sacrifice of 
self must be complete. 

Joyce Freeland was John’s cousin many times removed, yet 
the faint relationship was a fiction they both rejoiced in and 
clung to. Lonely Joyce’s one happiness in life was her brief 
visits at the farm, while the sunshine of the sweet girl’s pres¬ 
ence made glad the hearts of both John and his mother. 

Later in the evening they were all gathered around the open 
fire, John with a copy of Burns in hand from which he had 
been reading aloud “Hallowe’en,” while Joyce, seated on the 
rug, roasted chestnuts as she listened. 

“Cousin John,” said Joyce as he paused in his reading, “I 
’ve heard of another Hallowe’en trick; this one is to walk 
backward down the cellar stairs at midnight with a candle in 
one hand and a mirror in the other, and the face of your fu¬ 
ture husband or wife will appear reflected in the glass. ’ ’ 

“Rather a dangerous trick to try, Joyce,” said John smiling, 
“so don’t attempt it I beg of you.” 

“Dear me, cousin John,” cried Joyce with a shiver; “I 
wouldn’t go down cellar at midnight for all the husbands in 
the world.” 

“Not if you thought you would meet your ideal?” queried 
John mischievously. 

“Not even for that,” answered Joyce, though her cheeks 
took on a deeper tinge at the question. 

John Somers was unusually wakeful that night, and the clock 
had struck twelve before he aroused himself from his thought¬ 
ful study before the open fire, and started for his chamber. 
Looking about the rooms to see that all was secure for the 
night, he bethought himself of the outer cellar door which he 
had carelessly left open, and taking a candle he softly opened 
the door that led from the kitchen, and went down the cellar 
stairs. Shutting the outer door and securely fastening it, he 
turned to retrace his steps, when he was startled by what 
seemed to be the apparition of a woman standing at the head 
of the stairs. Slowly and cautiously the figure advanced, a 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


107 


lighted candle in one hand and a small mirror in the other, 
and breathlessly John awaited its approach. Like two pink 
mice, the little feet stepped one before the other down the 
stairs, and by the flickering light of the candle John saw Joyce’s 
pale face and great black eyes, wide open, yet with a strange, 
unseeing stare in them; he realized in a flash that poor Joyce 
was walking in her sleep. With swiftly beating heart, he stood 
at the foot of the stairs fearful lest a misstep should precipitate 
her into his arms, and yet longing with a sudden wild impulse 
for that same mishap. At last the end was reached and she 
paused before him, still staring straight ahead with dark sight¬ 
less eyes. Trembling and carefully John folded his arms soft¬ 
ly about the slim form, and with a breath blew out the candle. 
Resting against his shoulder Joyce still slept on, and lifting 
her in his strong arms John bore her swiftly up the stairs, 
nor paused till he had laid her on her own white bed. Once, 
while the dark head rested against his breast, John’s lips had 
touched the white face softly, and that kiss awoke the slumber¬ 
ing fire of love in his heart. All through the long hours be¬ 
tween midnight and dawn, John Somers struggled with this 
fever of love and longing. Bright visions of what life might 
be with Joyce all his own were swiftly clouded by the thought 
of how impossible it was that she could ever love him with 
the love he hungered for. Fifteen years lie between us, was 
the thought that troubled his heart, and the morning found 
him worn and weary with the battle. 

It was a pale face and dark-rimmed eyes that Joyce brought 
to the breakfast table the next morning, and Aunt Mary’s 
motherly heart yearned over the lonely girl. Almost in silence, 
however, was the breakfast eaten, a strange constraint seeming 
to have fallen on the little party, and soon the hour of Joyce’s 
departure was at hand. With tearful eyes she said her good¬ 
byes to the old farm and its inmates, and stepping into the 
carriage beside Cousin John, was driven slowly toward the 
depot. Silently, John drove along the lonely country road, 
his lips closed sternly. Not once that morning had his eyes 
dared to meet the questioning look in Joyce’s dark orbs, lest 



108 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


he should break through his resolution and speak words that 
might wound the sensitive girl, yet the thought of the blank 
that life would be without her filled his heart with an agony 
of longing. 

“Have I done anything to offend you, Cousin John?” ques¬ 
tioned Joyce at last, unable to bear the silence any longer. 

“Surely not, child; why do you ask?” answered John 
smiling down at his companion. 

“You seem so unlike yourself this morning, I thought per¬ 
haps—perhaps—” here Joyce’s lips trembled and her eyes filled 
with tears. 

“Hush! little girl,” said John crushing her hand in his. 
“You are making it very hard for me.” 

Joyce pulled her hand away a little impatiently. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Cousin John. I 
know it’s very hard for me to have to go back to that old 
store,” said she childishly. John laughed in spite of himself. 

“You are hardly yourself this morning either, Joyce, it 
would seem,” said he looking into the pale face and wonder¬ 
ing if she realized anything of what had happened the night 
before. Suddenly Joyce raised her eyes to his face with a 
strange, earnest look in their dark depths. John met the 
glance with eyes from which his own soul gazed with all its 
love and longing, and a swift blaze of color swept over Joyce’s 
pale cheeks as she turned away. 

“I had such a strange dream last night, Cousin John,” said 
she at last; John’s heart leaped as he turned a questioning 
look at the girl. 

“Did your’ was all his trembling lips could say. 

“Yes, all about Hallowe’en,” continued Joyce laughing a 
little nervously. “I dreamed that I walked down the cellar 
stairs at midnight, with a candle and a mirror to see who my 
sweetheart was to be. ’ ’ 

“And did you dream you saw any one?” said John as she 
paused. 

“Yes—” answered Joyce softly and slowly. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


109 


“Was it a strange face, or one you had seen before?” 
asked John, impelled by a power too strong to resist. 

“I had seen it before,” answered Joyce, still in that low soft 
voice. 

“And was it one that you could love, dear?” breathed John 
close in her ear. 

“With all my heart,’ said Joyce, turning a face bright with 
blushes toward him. 

Down dropped the reins, and the old horse stopped short, 
as John’s two arms clasped her close. 

“God bless you for those words, darling!” cried he kissing 
her over and over again. 

“You take a good deal for granted, Cousin John,” said 
Joyce slipping from his arms. “I didn’t say whose face it was 
that I saw, did I?” 

“Ah! sweetheart, but I know,” said John gaily; and then 
he told her of his experience of the night before. Joyce listen¬ 
ed with a demure face, but as he finished she looked up at 
him with eyes full of mischief. 

“That kiss awoke me, John,” said she, with a roguish 
smile. 


MY IDEAL. 

Why dost thou mock me so, thou fanthom sprite, 
And lure me onward till I’m worn and spent 
With eager reaching; and my heart finds vent 
In tears and weak despair at thy swift flight ? 
Come, let me see thy face, so fair and bright, 
And thy sweet smile in tender kindness bent 
On me, shall prove a balm from Heaven sent. 
For though so high thou dwellest that my sight 
Can scarcely pierce the space, yet my desire, 
Still urges me to climb the rugged way 
That leads to thee; and though I faint and tire, 

I will not yield; but toiling day by day, 

Press onward to thy side, my love, my soul, 

For only then, shall I have reached my goal. 




110 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


A DAY FOR THANKSGIVING. 


“The Governor has ’p’inted a day for Thanksgiving Abi¬ 
gail/ ’ said Obed Fletcher, laying down his newspaper and 
glancing at his wife a little anxiously. “I suppose we could 
kill the old white rooster an’ a couple o’ chickens/’ continued 
he, as he received no reply. “Seems to me a good chicken pie 
’s putty fair eatin ’ ’thout any turkey. ’ ’ 

A dark look swept across Abigail’s face. 

“We haint no call to keep Thanksgiving turkey or no 
turkey/’ answered she, bitterly. 

“Perhaps we aint, Abigail/’ said Obed, with a sigh, “an’ 
as for me, I don’t feel to care. I was jest a-thinkin’ that Dul- 
cie would be sort o’ disappointed ef we didn’t make no ’count 
on ’t.” 

“Dulcie ’ll have to learn to bear disappointments, same as 
I have. There aint been much else for me, for the last forty 
years,” answered his wife. 

Obed Fletcher’s round face paled a little and his voice grew 
husky as he said, slowly: 

“The Lord’s hand has been laid putty heavy on us, wife, 
I’ll allow; yet what are we that we should go ag’in His will?” 

“I don’t know but we’re jest as deservin’ as lots of others 
that don’t have no afflictions to speak on. We’ve both of us 
served the Lord faithfully this many a year. Wh’ve gone 
regular to meetin’, rain or shine. We’ve given to the poor 
accordin’ to our means, an’ helped to clothe the heathen. And 
we’ve denied ourselves to raise the money to send out mission¬ 
aries to preach the gospel. We’ve alius done to others as we’d 
have ’em do to us, an’ been fair dealin’ with our neighbors. 
Yet the Lord don’t seem to ha’ made much account on ’t, only 
to send us more burdens to bear than the average. I’ve tried 
to be patient an’ uncomplainin’, Obed, but I don’t see no 
reason for any special thanksgivin’.” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


111 


Like a torrent the bitter words fell from Abigail’s lips, and 
rising hastily she gathered up the apples she had been paring 
and walked swiftly into the buttery and closed the door. 

A look of shocked surprise had slowly settled on Obed’s face 
as he listened, yet he found no answer ready before his wife 
had left the room. Mild-tempered and easy, Obed Fletcher 
had meekly bowed his head beneath the storm of adversities 
that had swept over him, yielding without a struggle to the 
inevitable. Like many good Christians, he firmly believed that 
he saw the Lord’s hand in all their afflictions. So resignation 
to His will had been the one thing Obed had sought for, and 
apparently obtained. 

The spirit that dwelt in Abigail, however, was not so easily 
conquered. With a keener and deeper insight into the nature 
of things than was given her husband, she had long strug¬ 
gled with the tide of bitterness that seemed to engulf her. In 
the early years of her married life, two little ones had been 
carried off by diphtheria. 

‘‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be 
the name of the Lord,” quoted the minister, standing beside 
the little coffins. Yet the mother’s heart kept whispering, bit¬ 
terly: “Oh, if Obed had only a-fixed that drain the children 
never ’d been sick.” 

And so it was with many of the misfortunes and disappoint¬ 
ments that came to them as the years rolled on. She had seen, 
not the Lord’s hand, but the mismanagement of the Lord’s 
servants. The savings of years had been swept away by the 
failure of the village bank, whose uncertain condition they 
had been warned of, yet heeded not. The loss of a barn by 
fire was caused by a spark from Obed’s pipe, never acknowl¬ 
edged by him, though. All these, however, were but minor 
troubles to the one great sorrow of Abigail’s life, the loss of 
her only son, the father of Dulcie. 

From a little child, Reuben Fletcher had been the idol of 
his parents. The one child spared them, they had lavished 
such love and tenderness upon him as usually falls to the lot 
of an only son. Their brightest hopes and fondest ambitions 



112 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


were centered in him, yet, alas! they failed to keep him con¬ 
tented in the little country town in which he was born. At 
the age of twenty-one, he announced his intention of going to 
sea. In spite of prayers and pleadings, Abigail Fletcher said 
good-bye to her boy, and he sailed away. 

With youth and hope, light-hearted and buoyant, Reuben 
little dreamed of the aching hearts he left behind him, and 
only the mother who has her only child torn from her arms 
can know the bitterness of Abigail’s grief. 

Long and lonely had been the years that followed. With 
the close of each the hope of her boy’s return grew more and 
more faint. The news of his marriage to a pretty French girl 
had come to them, then a silence of many years. At last, the 
joyful news that he was coming home fell upon their hearts 
like a message from Heaven. “Coming home for good,” he 
had written, '‘to end his days in dear New England, and to 
place in his mother’s care his own motherless little daughter. 

Ah, me! who in this world can count on the fulfilment of 
earthly hopes? A storm at sea wrecked the homeward bound 
vessel and nearly all on board were lost. Among the rescued 
was Reuben Fletcher’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Dulcie, who 
found her way at last to her grandparents’ home. Cruel, in¬ 
deed, seemed this last terrible disappointment to Abigail. Even 
the coming of her grandchild to brighten the old farmhouse, 
scarcely eased the bitterness of the blow. 

Two years had passed since then bringing the changes that 
come to us all. Slowly the shock of their last great sorrow 
had passed away, leaving the cold calm of buried hopes. With 
his usual philosophy Obed accepted the inevitable with a 
resigned spirit, finding inexpressible comfort in the companion¬ 
ship of his bright little granddaughter. But Abigail! Those 
of us who have long sorrowed, who have silently borne the 
disappointments of years, who have seen one after another 
their earthly idols crumble and fall, and have secretly clung 
with fierce despair to one frail hope, can understand the agony 
that fell upon her spirit. 

The hidden rebelliousness of long years seemed to close 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


113 


about her heart, till it lay like a stone in her bosom. Out¬ 
wardly she was the same, in no wise neglecting the duties that 
came to her hand. Yet a rigid sternness of manner, a sharper 
speech, a colder sympathy, proved to the keen observer the 
hardening of Abigail Fletcher’s nature. 

Like a ray of Heaven’s own sunshine was merry-hearted, 
rosy cheeked Dulcie. With dancing black eyes, sprightly 
ways and foreign accent, she swiftly won the hearts of all who 
came in contact with her. With easy adaptability she fitted 
into the routine of country life, showing the strain of New 
England blood by her capable ways. Well it is that the 
young have so little time to grieve. Tenderly as she cherished 
the memory of her father, the mere joyousness of living light¬ 
ened the burden of her woe. 

Standing just outside the kitchen door, she had heard her 
grandmother’s bitter words with startled surprise. A little 
frightened and a good deal disappointed, she silently closed 
the door and passed out of the house. The keen air of the 
November day swept across her face and heightened the color 
of her cheeks. From a pan of shelled corn she threw out 
handfuls to the group of hens and chickens that gathered 
about her. With stately mien the old rooster stalked up to 
the pan, and helped himself, pompously pushing aside his sev¬ 
eral wives till he had eaten the larger share, after which manly 
act he spread his snowy wings and crowed lustily. 

Smiling a little Dulcie watched his manoeuvres and thought 
of her grandfather’s words as to his probable fate. So busily 
was she thinking that she started violently when a gay voice 
called her name. 

“Hullo, Dulcie!” A young fellow in a rough suit of farm¬ 
er’s clothes stood smiling at her from the roadside. 

“Why, Joe Porter, how you scared me!” throwing out the 
rest of the corn and hurrying toward him. 

“I thought you’d gone to sleep, you stood so still,” said 
Joe, laughing. 

“Oh, I was only thinking,” said Dulcie, her eyes drooping 
a little beneath the honest admiration in Joe’s. 




114 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Must ’a’ been mighty serious to have kept you so still,” 
said he. 

“Yes, it was,” answered Dulcie, with a sigh, then quickly: 
“But, where are you going so early?” 

Joe’s face sobered a little. “Only to the village to post a 
letter for Mrs. Shelby, Next week ’s Thanksgiving, you 
know. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Dulcie, her breath coming quickly. “What are 
your folks goin to do?” 

“Oh, the Shelbys are all going to Boston to spend Thanks¬ 
giving with their rich daughter. I guess they’ll have a grand 
time,” said Joe, tossing up the letter in his hand and catching 
it again with a forced aid of indifference. 

Dulcie’s black eyes widened. “But what will you do?” she 
asked, tremulously. 

“Me? Oh, I’ll hang ’round and look after the house and 
stock and eat bread and milk for my dinner,” answered Joe, 
laughing a little huskily. 

Two great tears welled up into Dulcie’s eyes and stayed 
there. 

“I suppose your folks will make a big time and have a 
whopping turkey,” added Joe, without looking at her. 

“No, we aint going to keep Thanksgiving this year,” said 
Dulcie, slowly, with her eyes on the ground. 

“Why not?” cried Joe, astonished. 

“Oh, grandma doesn’t think she has anything to be thank¬ 
ful for,” said Dulcie, slowly, her lip quivering slightly. 

Joe’s keen eyes flashed a quick glance around at the sub¬ 
stantial farm-house, the rich acres lying all about them, and 
finally, settled upon sweet little Dulcie’s drooping face. His 
color rose swiftly. 

“Well, I never!” exclaimed he, “I just think I’d be thank¬ 
ful if I had all this—and you, too, Dulcie.” 

At his last words the girl glanced up into the boyish face 
so near her own, and the two big drops in her dark eyes rolled 
down her cheeks. It was too much for poor Joe, and his arms 
closed hastily about the slight form. 



I 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 115 


“Dulcie, dear, dear, Dulcie, don’t cry,” he whispered, soft¬ 
ly. “Sometime, before many years, we’ll spend all of our 
Thanksgiving days together, and we’ll have the biggest 
turkeys to be found in the country, won’t we, darling?” 

Dulcie’s curly black head bobbed a decided “yes” against 
Joe’s shoulder. 

“And plum puddings, too,” she mumbled in his coat collar. 

Then they both laughed, and all their troubles vanished into 
thinnest air. 

When one is eighteen and in love, nothing else matters very 
much, and so Dulcie’s clear young voice rang out merrily in 
the cold air as she danced back into the house. And Joe Porter 
went whistling on his way to the village. What difference did 
it make if Joe Porter was only the Shelbys’ hired man? He 
was honest and good, handsome and full of New England 
energy and ambition, and his life was all before him. Ah! 
what grand possibilities are ever before the lad of twenty! 

It was only a few days now before Thanksgiving. Far and 
near the busy housewives were bustling about in anxious prep¬ 
aration for the feast of the day. The plump turkeys in the 
farmyards seemed to know intuitively their coming fate, and 
hid themselves in out of the way corners. The Fletchers’ old 
white rooster, however, strutted about in his usual pompous 
manner, snubbing his wives and asserting his independence by 
frequent loud crows. Evidently the annual slaughter of fowls 
was a matter of supreme indifference to his lordship. 

The clear, cold air had softened, and occasionally a snow¬ 
flake fluttered earthward. 

“Looks if we was goin’ to have a storm, Obed,” said Abi¬ 
gail Fletcher to her husband as he was going out one morning. 

“Nothin’ more ’n a squall,” answered Obed, tying a big 
woolen scarf around his neck, and pulling on a pair of clumsy 
mittens. “I’ve got to get the rest o’ that load o’ wood up in 
the north lot anyhow,” added he. 

“Pity ye hadn’t ’a’ done it before the cold weather set in,” 
said Abigail sharply; “ye could jest as well ’s not.” 

Obed winced slightly but made no answer. “Accordin’ to 




116 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


my way of tliinkin ’ procrastination is as great a sin as lots of 
others folks make more ado about/ ’ continued Abigail hastily 
filling a tin pail with food for his luncheon. “Ye’re alius a- 
puttin’ off till tomorrow what should ’a’ been done today, 
Obed, an’ ye know' it.” 

“Well, wife, I s’pose I have got ’bout as many faults as they 
average,” answered Obed calmly. “But we aint none on us 
perfect anyhow, an’ the Lord has to have lots o’ patience with 
the most on us poor creeters.” 

“The Lord aint the only one, either,” muttered Abigail, 
closing the door after him as he went out. 

As the day advanced the air grew more and more heavy 
with the coming storm. Thicker and faster fell the tiny snow¬ 
flakes till a whitened landscape lay all about them. 

The early twilight was fast closing in, and Obed Fletcher had 
not returned. 

“I can’t see what ’s keepin’ yer grandpa,” said Abigail to 
Dulcie as she peered anxiously out into the darkness. Spring¬ 
ing up Dulcie slipped outside. Quickly she returned. 

“It isn’t so very dark yet, grandma. I guess I’ll run up 
the road a little way and see if I can’t meet him,” said she, 
wrapping herself up to go out.” 

“I’m most afraid to have ye,” answered her grandmother 
uneasily. 

“Oh! I’ll be all right. The snow won’t hurt me, so don’t 
worry, grandma,” and she was gone. 

Left alone, Abigail busied herself for a time setting the table 
for supper. Then piling on more wood in the great fireplace 
in the living room, she sat down to wait the coming of her 
husband and Dulcie. The tasks of the day had been unusually 
hard and had wearied her greatly. So, in spite of her anxiety, 
the silent room, the monotonous ticking of the old clock, and 
the warm fire, soothed her into forgetfulness, and she slept. 

Then there came to Abigail Fletcher a dream. The long, 
low room seemed to be filled full of people. A solemn hush 
held them spellbound. Suddenly a voice spoke. 

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” it said. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


117 


Then Abigail saw before her a long, narrow coffin, and the 
dead face of her only son. Once more that old feeling of re¬ 
bellions bitterness swelled her heart. ‘ 1 1 can’t bear it! I can’t 
bear it! The Lord is cruel, ’ ’ she cried. 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” said the voice. 

Silently she turned away, when a word was whispered in 
her ear, “Mother!” There before her stood her boy smiling 
down into her face. 

“Reuben! Oh! my son, Reuben!” she cried, and the sound 
of her own voice awoke her. 

The room lay all in darkness save for the faint light from 
the smouldering logs in the fireplace. Suddenly the clock 
struck ten. Frightened and trembling, Abigail arose and 
lighted a lamp. 

The supper table stood as she had left it, untouched. What 
could have happened that no one had come? And Dulcie! 
Where was the child? The storm still raged and swept against 
the window panes in white drifts. A deadly sinking at her 
heart made Abigail grasp a chair for support, then with an 
effort she roused herself to action. 

Thrusting her feet into Obed’s long boots, and wrapping her 
heavy shawl about her, she took from its nail the barn lantern. 
With trembling fingers she lighted it, and went out into the 
storm and darkness. It was only a quarter of a mile to the 
Shelbys’ farmhouse, yet through that blinding storm and with 
the weight of her terrible anxiety oppressing her heart, it 
seemed miles to Abigail. 

With a bound Joe Porter was out of bed, into his clothes, and 
at the door, at the second blow of the old brass knocker. At 
sight of Abigail’s tall form he started back in surprise. 

“Why, Mrs. Fletcher, what’s the matter? Any one sick?” 
asked he breathlessly. 

“Dulcie and her grandfather are lost in the snow,” said 
Abigail, her voice sounding strange and weird from out the 
darkness. “Can’t you hitch up an’ see if you can find them?” 

“Lost in the snow! Dulcie?” muttered Joe, bewildered. 

“Mr. Fletcher went this morning up to our north lot to 



118 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


fetch a load o’ wood, an’ he didn’t get home soon as we 
thought he ought, an’ so Dulcie started out to meet him. But 
they aint either on ’em come yet,” explained Abigail. 

“I’ll call Mr. Shelby an’ we’ll go straight an’ hunt ’em up,” 
said Joe, his heart growing cold with the thought of their 
possible fate. “And you’d better come in an’ wait here till 
we get back,” he added, trying to draw Abigail into the 
house. But she turned away with a surpressed groan. 

“No, I must go home,” she muttered, turning quickly away. 
Back through the storm and darkness she tramped, her limbs 
trembling beneath her. Oh! the agony of those long hours of 
waiting! Never to the day of her death could she forget them. 

Replenishing the dying fire, filling the kettles with water, 
she moved restlessly about the house, now and then peering 
out into the darkness with eager eyes. Remorsefully she 
dwelt on the sharp words she had spoken to Obed that morn¬ 
ing. Pitifully and tenderly she thought of her little grand¬ 
daughter, and her heart ached with its agony of dread. 

At last came the sound of tramping feet, and the door was 
thrown open. Joe Porter walked in with Dulcie’s slight form 
in his arms. 

“She is nearly frozen, I’m afraid,” said he huskily, as he 
placed her on a couch by the fire. 

But what was that coming through the doorway? Abigail 
stood as if turned to stone. “What has happened?” she said 
with dry lips. “Is he-” 

“No, Mrs. Fletcher, he isn’t dead. Don’t be frightened,” 
quickly answered Mr. Shelby, who with another man carried 
the long board on which lay her husband’s silent form. “He 
s only insensible from the pain of his leg. A heavy log of 
wood had fallen across it and we fear it is broken. Dulcie 
found him, but the log was too heavy for her to move. She 
kept him from freezing by throwing buffalo robes over him, 
and piling branches of the trees around him to keep out the 
storm. She tried to' find her way out of the lot to get help, but 
the snow bewildered her so she lost her bearings. We found 
them both together under a pile of boughs.” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


119 


It was a long night of terrible anxiety for Abigail that fol¬ 
lowed, but when morning dawned she knew that her dear ones 
would be spared to her. 

Thanksgiving day was as perfect a day as ever dawned upon 
dear New England. Clear and cold, the air was like wine. 
The brilliant sunshine flooded the snow-clad earth and illu¬ 
minated the mountain tops with a crown of shining gems. 
Obed Fletcher was confined to his bed with a broken leg, yet 
aside from that was not seriously injured by his long exposure, 
thanks to Dulcie’s timely aid. 

And Dulcie was quite her own gay self, and danced about 
the house in fine spirits. Alas! for the old white rooster! His 
pride was laid in the dust, or rather, on the chopping block, 
for he was doomed to grace the Thanksgiving table of the 
Fletchers. 

Dulcie had confided to grandma the lonely condition of Joe 
Porter, in the absence of the Shelby family. And grandma, 
who seemed wonderfully changed these last few days, had 
considerately invited him to eat dinner with them on Thanks¬ 
giving day. And Dulcie’s heart was brimful of joy at the 
prospect. Into the midst of all these happenings, a horse and 
sleigh was driven up to the door. A man with a bushy beard 
jumped out and coolly opening the door walked into the house. 
Then indeed did the outer shell that covered the tenderness 
of Abigail’s heart fall away forever. 

“Reuben, my son Reuben!” she cried, clasping the stranger 
in her arms. 

Yes, after an absence of twenty years Reuben Fletcher had 
returned to his boyhood’s home. It would be too long a story 
to tell of all that had befallen Reuben since we heard of him 
last. It is enough for the reader to know that he was once 
more safe in the bosom of his family. That Obed and Abigail 
had at last found their son, and Dulcie was made happy by a 
father’s love. 

They were gathered about the dinner table. The old white 
rooster, in the form of a delicious stew, made the first course. 



120 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


Two plump chickens that were to end their earthly career in 
the form of a mammoth pie, came next; and who cared for a 
turkey? Surely not Joe nor Dulcie. 

Reuben Fletcher’s grateful glance covered the loaded table, 
then rested on his old mother’s happy face and his little 
daughter’s rosy cheeks. Reverently he bowed his head. 

“For all our mercies, oh, Lord, make us thankful.” 

Abigail’s voice was low and tremulous, yet it rang with the 
true spirit as she said earnestly, “Amen.” 


PATIENCE. 


Though “all things come to him who will but wait,” 

Yet we can’t help but oft’ rebel at fate, 

That ever holds with tantalizing gleam, 

The fond fulfilment of some cherished dream. 

And when one seems to have gained at last the goal, 

For which they’ve staked their life, perhaps their soul. 

And find they still have many miles to tread, 

Ah! then the heart grows sick, and hope seems dead. 

’Tis then the lesson that we all must learn, 

E ’en though our heads do throb, and hearts do burn, 

That Job, so many years ago learned well, 

And we so oft’ in history have heard tell. 

Then let us imitate with worthy zeal, 

This most illustrous saint, and ever feel, 

E’en when our patience is severely tried, 

That “all things come to him who will but bide.” 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


121 


ONE SOLDIER’S GRAVE. 


The May sunshine lay warm and mellow across the freshly 
scoured floor. Softly it touched the gray hair of the woman 
that stood in the door of the old farmhouse, and flecked the 
lilac bush that leaned against the window. 

Shading her eyes with her hand, the woman peered earnest¬ 
ly down the long country road as the rumble of wheels caught 
her ear. A wagon-load of evergreens, drawn by a stout farm 
horse soon came in sight. 

“Hello! Mis’ Jacobs goin’ to help us with the wreaths this 
year?” said he with a cheerful wave of his hand toward the 
fragrant pile, as he jumped from his team. 

“I s’pose I be, Sam,” answered the woman, glancing with 
solemn eyes at the loaded wagon. ‘‘I aint never refused to 
do my duty by them poor boys in the old burying-ground, 
even if my old man aint among ’em.” 

“That ’s so, Mis’ Jacobs, sure enough,” quickly responded 
Sam warmly, “you’ve alius done the square thing by every 
soldier boy that was brought home to sleep in the old grave¬ 
yard; and I jest hope the Lord will put it into someone’s heart 
to do the same by Zachary Jacobs.” 

The woman sighed. 

“Seem ’s if I’d feel more contented like if I only jest know- 
ed where Zach was buried,” said she, her eyes wandering 
wistfully toward the distant horizon, as though to pierce the 
veil that hid that far off Southern grave. 

Sam balanced himself uneasily first on one foot and then on 
the other. 

“ ’T would be sort of comfortin’, Mis’ Jacobs, sure,” said he 
slowly, “but after the boys saw him fall at Antietam they nar- 
ry one on ’em heard of him again.” 

“I know it, Sam, an’ that makes me feel sometimes ’s if ’t 




122 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


wa’n’t true that he was dead, ” said Nancy Jacobs eagerly. 
“Why, some days I gets to thinkin’ on ’t till I can’t rest easy 
nohow; ’t seems if I could almost see him a-comin’ in the 
door,” and she gazed earnestly down the road as if her long¬ 
ing eyes could see her husband’s tall form in the distance. 

“Now, Mis’ Jacobs, don’t ye go to feelin’ that way, for if 
Zach was alive, ye’d a known on ’t afore this time. Why, it 
’s ten year or more since he was left on that battlefield for 
dead, an’ there aint the smallest chance he’ll turn up alive,” 
said he earnestly. Then lifting out a big armful of sweet¬ 
smelling greens he threw them down beside the door. 

“Well, I must be a-gettin’ on; so here’s a few greens an’ 
ye can make as many wreaths as ye like, an’ I’ll call an’ get 
’em in a few days.” 

“Spose I can keep one on ’em to hang on Zach’s peg, over 
his old coat that’s hung there ever since he went away?” 
questioned Nancy. 

1 * Certain, certain, ’ ’ answered Sam, his voice a little husky at 
the woman’s pathetic manner. “None on ’em deserves to be 
remembered more’n Zach Jacobs, sure.” Then with a loud 
* ‘ Co ’long!” to his horse, he was soon out of sight down the 
shady country road. 

Gathering up the evergreens in her apron, Nancy Jacobs 
turned and went into the house, and after spreading down an 
old sheet to protect her clean floor from the litter, she began 
her humble task. 

Deftly her fingers wove the long strands together, while her 
thoughts traveled back over the years of her lonely widow¬ 
hood. Ten long years had passed since that never-to-be-for¬ 
gotten day, when, in the column of the village newspaper she 
read her husband’s name among the list of those who were 
“missing” after the battle of Antietam. Oh! the agony of the 
days and weeks that followed, when with mingled feelings of 
hope and despair she had watched and waited for further news 
of her loved one. Yet the days came and went, bringing 
naught but silence to her longing heart. Then had come the 
return of the soldiers who were left from her husband’s regi- 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


123 


✓ 


ment, and among them those who had seen him fall on that 
fatal battlefield. Then the hope that she might gaze once more 
on his dear face, though asleep in the Eternal Arms, was taken 
from her, and the longing to see the spot of ground that held his 
poor remains, took its place in her heart. Day by day, year 
after year, this thought grew and strengthened, till it had be¬ 
come the one wish of her lonely life. 

In giving her husband to the service of his country, Nancy 
Jacobs had given her all. Two small graves in the village 
burying-ground held the disappointed hopes of a mother’s 
love; yet, with the martyrdom of our brave New England wo¬ 
men, she had sent her last home tie to fight in that noble cause, 
and finally to sleep in an unknown grave. 

The last of the evergreens had taken the desired shape 
through Nancy’s skilful fingers, and lay in a neat pile ready 
for Sam to take away. Tenderly she had placed one of the 
wreaths on the peg over the faded, threadbare coat of Zach’s 
home life, one of the links of the past her woman’s heart clung 
to. As her trembling fingers touched the old familiar garment, 
the waves of memory swept over her like a flood, and swiftly 
the tears gathered and fell upon her handiwork. Then there 
suddenly came to the lonely woman the feeling of a presence 
near, and as if spoken aloud, so clear and distinct seemed the 
voice in her ear, she thought she heard the word “come.” 

A little startled, Nancy glanced quickly about her; but the 
purple lilacs nodding at the window, and the sunbeams danc¬ 
ing across the bare floor seemed to laugh at her fears. 

“I must be a-gettin’ dreadful nervous,” she muttered to her¬ 
self as she hastily brushed her eyes, “but ’t seemed to me as 
if some one spoke to me then, sure.” 

All that day, in spite of her strong practical commonsense, 
the feeling remained with her, and the word “come” seemed 
whispered in every sound that fell upon her ear. In the 
breeze that swept the shower of apple-blossoms across her 
neat doorstep she heard it; in the murmur of the brook, whose 
tones she could hear from her open window, there came that 




124 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


same plaintive voice; and the loud notes of the robbins in the 
treetops seemed to have settled down into a solemn chant of 
that one word “come.” 

Through the long hours of the night, Nancy lay with wide 
open eyes staring into the darkness, and not until her mind 
had formed and matured a plan of action did they close in 
slumber. 

With the coming of dawn, however, she arose and began her 
preparations for a long journey. It was many years since she 
had left the old farm for even the journey of a day, but so 
strong had grown the desire to learn something of her hus¬ 
band’s last resting-place that she seemed impelled by a power 
stronger than herself to make this effort. Realizing nothing 
of the distance or the difficulties of a journey to that far-off 
South she had read of, she took from its hiding-place the 
small savings of years of economy and started forth into the 
unknown. 

The whirling landscape, the unfamiliar faces, the many 
stops and changes, and the noise and clamor of the great cities 
dazed and bewildered her, and after what seemed like a 
troubled dream, she awoke one day and found herself in the 
city of Washington. Having read of that beautiful spot, the 
National Cemetery, where so many of our heroes are sleeping, 
Nancy Jacobs determined to look here for the grave of her 
husband. Through the long hours from sunrise to sunset, she 
wandered through those flower-bordered walks, peering at 
the names on the headstones in that field of graves, and gazing 
with wonderstruck eyes at the vast number marked “Un¬ 
known. ’ ’ 

Could it be that among those poor nameless boys, Zachary 
Jacobs had found his last home? Heartsick and weary, Nan¬ 
cy sank down on a shady seat, while a feeling of despair and 
disappointment took possession of her. Through the broad 
avenues rolled the carriages filled with curious sightseers, yet 
no one seemed to notice the little old woman in her country- 
made gown who watched them with pathetic eyes. 

Presently the warm sunshine, the fragrance of early bios- 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


125 


soms, the sweet twitter of birds, soothed the tired nerves and 
there came to Nancy a delightful feeling of rest and peace. 
Then it was she seemed to be lifted and borne through space 
far, far away. The sweet smell of the pine-trees came to her 
nostrils, and the low murmur of their voices touched her ear. 
“Come,” they seemed to say, and with a start Nancy awoke. 
Refreshed and strengthened, she drew from her pocket the 
little map that had been her guide throughout her journey, 
and once more studied its lines with renewed hope. 

Thus it came to pass that the next day she was once more 
whirling through the country on, onward toward that spot of 
Southern ground, where the battle of Antietam was fought so 
many years ago. 

In the little town of Sharpsburg she paused, feeling that 
here her feet were nearing earth sacred to the memory of 
slaughtered heroes. The Southern town hot, dusty and dirty, 
with its crowds of black faces all about her, was strange and 
bewildering to the country woman of the North, and Nancy 
Jacobs gazed about her with wondering eyes. Gaily-turbaned 
negroes passed her by with curious glances at her own quaint 
figure, while now and then the sallow face of a white woman 
looked sharply at her from the depths of a huge sunbonnet. 
Wearily Nancy’s tired feet trod the dusty walk, as she sought 
for a place of rest and shelter from the burning rays of the 
sun. Suddenly a strange dizziness swept over her; the earth 
seemed to rise up like a huge wall, and the faces of the people 
about her blended together in one black sea. With a desperate 
effort she threw out her hands and clutched at the nearest ob¬ 
ject which happened to be the dress of a negress who was 
passing. 

“Bres de Lawd, honey! What’s de matter?” cried the wo¬ 
man as her arms clasped about Nancy’s fainting form. 

No answer came from the pale face that leaned against the 
negress’s ample breast, for Nancy had reached the limit of 
her endurance, and tired nature was taking its revenge. 

On the outskirts of the town there stood a little old house 
made of logs and slabs, and plastered on the outside with mud. 



126 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The interior was divided into two rooms, one used as a sleep¬ 
ing apartment, and the other as a general living room. A 
small leanto attached to one end served as kitchen. The large 
chimney of sticks and mud was on the outside of the house, 
and the great open fireplace in the living-room served a double 
purpose of cooking and heating. Behind the house a shady 
grove of shrubs and pine made cool shadows about the little 
homestead, and a small garden patch where a few gay blos¬ 
soms smiled in the sunshine made a bit of color in the picture. 

On a low cot bed in the sleeping room of this humble home 
Nancy Jacobs lay sleeping the slumber of utter exhaustion. A 
stout middle-aged negress bent over her with an anxious look 
on her good-natured face. 

"I ’d jest like to know whar’ dat ar’ ‘oman drapt from,” 
she muttered. Mighty curi’s how I done cotched her jest *n 
time” 

Nancy s eyes opened and gazed at the black face bending 
over her with a bewildered stare. 

“How does ye feel now, honey?” asked the woman kindly. 

“Better, I guess,” answered Nancy faintly. “Where am 
I?” 

At the sound of her voice the black woman smiled broadly. 

“Wid dem who am de fren’s ob ebery Yankee who come dis 
way,” said she earnestly. 

Nancy s tired eyes thanked her as they once more closed 
wearily and she slept. The loud ticking of a timepiece sound¬ 
ed in her ears, as a little later her eyes opened again and gazed 
about her with a steady look. Against the wall, hanging on 
a s ^°ut nail, was a huge, old-fashioned silver watch, merrily 
ticking away the hours. Strangely familiar it seemed to the 
poor homesick woman, and she gazed at it long and earnestly. 
A deep dent in one side caught her eye at last, and she rose 
up from her bed, pale and trembling. 

Taking it down from its place on the nail, she pressed open 
the back and read with swiftly-beating heart the two letters 
engraven there, “Z. J.” With a feeling that she had at last 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


127 


found a clue, she walked into the next room and holding up 
the watch before the astonished negress, said in a quivering 
voice: 

“Tell me, woman, where you got this watch?” 

“Now, Missy, don ye go for to tink I done stole dat ar’ 
watch,” answered the woman earnestly. “Mars’ Jacobs, a poor 
Union soldier what my man Pete toted off’n the battlefiel’ ob 
Antietam, he done left it here wid Pete an’ me til’ some on 
the folks come ’long an’ claim it, an’ it done hang on dat ar’ 
nail dis ten year an’ no one come yet.” 

“What became of the soldier?” said Nancy eagerly. 

“La, missy! he done die dat same night Pete toted him 
home,” said the negress. “Is you from de North, missy, and 
did ye eber know Mars’ Jacobs?” 

“Zachary Jacobs was my husband,” said Nancy, sinking 
down into a chair with the watch clasped tightly in her hand. 
“And I have come hundreds of miles to find the spot where 
he w r as buried.” 

The woman’s eyes grew big and round with astonishment, 
and throwing up her two hands she cried earnestly: 

“De Lawd’s han’ am in it, missy! De Lawd’s han’ hab led 
you to de right place. Bress de Lawd, oh, my soul!” Then 
taking Nancy’s poor trembling hand in her own strong black 
one, she added: 

“Come, Missy Jacobs, an’ I ’ll done show you de lobely spot 
wher’ we buried Mars’ Jacobs. An’ Pete, he done ker ob de 
grabe all these year lak as if’t was his own chile. ’ ’ And she led 
Nancy out through the door to the grove beyond. 

In the centre of a cluster of pine-trees that grew in a circle 
around it, they had made the grave, and over it was spread 
earth’s beautiful carpet of green, starred with lovely blos¬ 
soms. 

Nancy bent over the mound with the feeling that at last 
her pilgrimage was over, and she shed her first tears upon her 
husband’s grave. A few days longer she remained with the 
warm-hearted people in the little log cabin, and learned from 
them all there was to be known of Zachary’s last hours. 



128 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


Daily she visited the lonely grave, and spent hours listening 
to the murmur of the fragrant pines, and dreaming of bygone 
days. But there came a day when she failed to return to the 
little cabin, and when they sought her, they found that the 
Angel of Peace had touched her and she had fallen asleep. 
Now indeed had Nancy Jacobs found her lost one. 


THE WIND. 


Blow ye bleak winds, howl and blow, 
Piling high the drifts of snow, 

Round the house your mournful wail, 
Makes one shiver, and cheeks turn pale. 

Down the chimney you sob and moan, 
Through the tree-tops sigh and groan, 
Rattling windows, swinging gates, 
Hurrying, flurrying, never late. 

Playing tricks on high and low, 

Dealing each and all a blow, 

Umbrellas turning inside out, 

Causing a laugh, and merry shout. 

Helping a man to raise his hat, 

Letting another sit down flat, 

Treating one and all the same, 

Caring naught, for state or name. 

Painting crimson, cheek and nose, 

Nipping fingers, ears, and toes, 

Making eyes o’er flow with tears, 

While we hear your scornful jeers. 

Oh! ye bleak winds, blow your fill, 
Slamming, banging, never still, 

Soon you’ll tire and die away, 

Worn and spent, with boisterous play. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


129 


A MOTHER’S LOVE. 


“I’m sorry for you, Salome, though to tell the truth it’s no 
more than I expected, from the way you’ve brought that boy 
up to please himself,” and Mrs. Deacon Holden leaned back 
in her chair with an “I told you so” expression on her shrewd 
face. 

Salome Rogers looked at her sister reproachfully a moment, 
then with an effort she answered quietly, 

“I have sought to rule him through love, Caroline.” 

“Fiddlesticks, Salome, you are altogether too soft where 
Harold is concerned. A good thrashing once in a while does 
a boy more good than kisses and coddling.” 

“But you must remember that Harold has been my all, and 
has never known a father’s love or care; I could not be harsh 
with him, Caroline,” answered Salome, her blue eyes filling 
with tears as they glanced wistfully out over the landscape, as 
if they saw through space a lonely grave in a far off Southern 
field. 

Mrs. Holden moved uneasily in her chair, then rising she 
said hastily. 

“Well, well, Salome, don’t fret; it may prove a good lesson 
to Harold, and though no doubt you are disappointed about 
the money, I hope you don’t begrudge it to Philip.” 

A curious look swept for an instant over Salome Rogers’s 
face, and her voice grew a shade colder as she answered, 

“You are welcome to the money, Caroline, it is my poor 
boy’s disgrace, and father’s disappointment that grieves me; 
but I cannot talk about it any longer today, so please excuse 
me,” and she abruptly left the room. 

In the seclusion of her own chamber the last shred of com¬ 
posure forsook her and with a groan she covered her face 
with her hands and wept, while her aching heart sent up a 
prayer for help in her hour of trial. 




130 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“How odd Salome is,” muttered Caroline Holden to herself 
as she walked swiftly homeward. “I never did understand 
her. Well, the money will be Philip’s anyway, and he’s earned 
it too, I guess.” 

Salome Rogers and Caroline Holden were sisters, although 
as totally unlike as if born of different parents. Brought up 
in the thriving village where they still resided, their lives had 
yet run in different channels. Both were married at an early 
age, but Salome’s happiness was but short-lived, for a widow’s 
cap soon covered her golden locks, while a soldier’s grave hid 
the form of her beloved one. Only her year-old baby boy with 
his father’s eyes and smile was left to remind her of her brief 
dream of bliss. Sheltered in the home of her childhood, she 
lived a life of quiet self-denial, tenderly caring for her aged 
parents in their declining years, and feeding her hungry heart 
on the love of her noble boy. With Caroline, life had been 
more prosperous. Her husband, a shrewd business man, had 
accumulated a considerable property during the late war, and 
with true Yankee thrift had invested to such good advantage, 
that at the time our story opens he held the deeds of nearly a 
third of the property of the little village of N-. 

Three sons had blessed this union. Philip, the oldest, was 
at this time twenty years of age, and a year younger than his 
cousin Harold. Both boys were bright, intelligent, and wide¬ 
awake, though as different in looks and disposition as the two 
women who bore them. Harold Rogers was a broad shoulder¬ 
ed, golden-haired young giant, six feet high, with fearless 
blue eyes and a sunny smile. Warm hearted, generous and 
impulsive, he was a favorite with all who knew him. A bright 
scholar and quick to learn, he was yet too found of active life 
ever to become a great student of books. Thus it was that his 
cousin Philip, though a year younger, had kept pace with him 
in his school life and was prepared to enter college the same 
year. Slight of build, with dark hair and eyes, a sallow com¬ 
plexion and a quiet reserved manner, Philip Holden was al¬ 
most the opposite in tastes and disposition from his cousin. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


131 


Intensely fond of study he was extremely ambitious of se¬ 
curing every honor that would fall to him through a high 
scholarship. The cousins, however, were much attached to 
each other, seemingly drawn the closer together by the dis¬ 
similarity of their natures. 

Grandfather Martin, the father of Salome and Caroline, was 
a clear-headed, far-seeing old gentleman, and very fond of his 
grandchildren. From their childhood he had watched with 
interest the two boys Harold and Philip, studied their dispo¬ 
sitions, and speculated as to their future; and while his heart 
was drawn more toward Harold, his pride was gratified in the 
scholarly attainments of Philip, who so determinedly kept 
pace with his elder cousin. Desirous of giving a new incentive 
to study on Harold’s part, and having great confidence in his 
abilities if he would but apply himself more closely, grand¬ 
father Martin had placed the sum of five thousand dollars in 
the village bank to be given to the boy who graduated with 
the highest honors, and should they leave college with the 
same scholarly standing the money was to be divided between 
them. With no prospects for the future save what should come 
to him through his own energy and ability, Harold Rogers had 
determined to win the prize. 

At the university in C-the two cousins had passed three 

years of hard work, keeping shoulder to shoulder in the race 
for honors, till it had grown to be a question which would 
win the five thousand dollars. It was nearing the middle of 
the last year in their college course, when, like a thunder¬ 
bolt falling in the midst of the quiet home life, came the news 
that Harold Rogers was expelled from college for some misde¬ 
meanor at present shrouded in mystery. Following the letter 
from the Faculty announcing his expulsion, there came a let¬ 
ter from Harold to his mother, so wild in tone, so incompre¬ 
hensible in its half explanations, that poor Salome’s heart 
ached for her boy, and she could only wait with an unutter¬ 
able longing for his home-coming. Grandfather Martin’s rage 
and disappointment knew no bounds, and in his anger he said 




132 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


many bitter things to his unhappy daughter, utterly refusing 
to have anything more to do with his grandson or his grand¬ 
son’s future. 

In the home of Caroline Holden there was one member of 
the household whose girlish heart was filled with grief and 
pity for Harold, and who secretly longed to comfort his moth¬ 
er with the assurance of her continued faith in his honor. 
Ruth Holden was Deacon Holden’s ward and the orphan child 
of his only brother, whose death had left her to the care of 
her uncle and his wife. Having no daughter of her own, Caro¬ 
line Holden had learned to love the beautiful young girl, 
whose bright face and sweet disposition seemed like a ray of 
sunlight in the home life. 

With a snug little bank account of her own, Ruth was in no 
way dependent on her uncle for her maintenance, and, alas! 
for poor human nature, the said bank account was not the least 
of her charms in the eyes of her relatives. 

The shadows of an early twilight were swiftly gathering, 
when Harold Rogers walked up the path that led to the old 
farm-house, and pushing open the door, soon held his mother 
in his arms. 

“Harold, my poor boy, what have you done?” said Salome, 
kissing him tenderly. 

“Disgraced myself and my family, so the Faculty say,” an¬ 
swered Harold bitterly. 

“I cannot believe it, my son. Tell me it is not true.” 

“No, mother, it is not true; and as Gbd hears me I am not 
guilty of the crime laid at my door.” 

And Harold Rogers’s honest blue eyes looked fearlessly into 
his mother’s face. 

“I know it, dear, I trust you fully. But tell me, Harold, 
what is this dreadful thing you are accused of?” 

Then in the gloaming of that summer’s night, with his head 
pillowed in his mother’s lap as in the days of his childhood, 
Harold told the whole miserable story. Professor Blank, one of 

the Faculty of C- University, suddenly missed his pocket- 

book one day, containing some important papers, and quite a 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


133 


large amount of money in bank bills. Not finding it after a 
diligent search through the college grounds, he made inquiries 
of the students, but, apparently, no one had seen it. Each of 
the bank bills had a small red cross in one corner which Pro¬ 
fessor Blank had placed there out of curiosity to see if these 
bills would ever return to his hands after once leaving them. 
A week passed by, when one day while the Professor was pay¬ 
ing for his lunch at a little restaurant close to the college 
grounds, one of the marked bills was handed to him in change 
for a larger one. With a start he recognized the red cross, 
and pointing it out to the man in charge, asked him if he had 
noticed it, and if he could remember who had passed the bill? 
The man said yes to both questions, and said that Harold 
Rogers had given him the bill only the day before in payment 
for his dinner. After consulting with the rest of the Faculty, 
the Professor decided to search Harold’s room while he was 
absent, and on doing so, the pocket-book was found at the bot¬ 
tom of his trunk, and every bill was there save the one he had 
passed at the restaurant. 

Harold’s protestations of innocence were all in vain; the 
evidence was too strong against him, and though the affair 
was not to be made public they decided that his expulsion 
was absolutely necessary, and a just punishment for his crime. 
Harold’s voice was husky with suppressed feeling as he finish¬ 
ed his bitter tale, while the tears fell from his mother’s eyes 
on to his bowed head. 

“Do you remember how you came by that bill, Harold?” 
said his mother at last. 

“Yes, Philip came to me that very monring and asked me to 
change a bill for him. I did so, and after he had gone I no¬ 
ticed the red cross in one corner.” 

“Philip!” cried Salome in a smothered voice, and Harold, 
lifting his head, the eyes of mother and son met in the gather¬ 
ing darkness; then with a cry of, “My poor, poor boy!” a 
long silence fell between them. 


The moonlight lay in silvery patches along the quiet country 




134 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


road, and made gigantic shadows of the two figures that were 
slowly walking amid the dewy stillness. The soft murmur of 
their voices sounded clear on the evening air, and an inquisi¬ 
tive robin sprang up from her nest and perching on the bough 
of an apple tree beneath which the shadows had paused, seem¬ 
ed to be listening eagerly. 

“Did you believe me guilty, Ruth?” said the taller shadow. 

“Never, Harold,” said the other with a trustful look up¬ 
ward. 

“If grandfather would have more faith in me,” said the tall 
shadow with a sigh. “Well, he may think differently, some 
day, and meanwhile I am going away to make my fortune. 
Will you wait, dear Ruth, till I can earn a home for you?” 

“As long as you wish,” answered the other softly. 

As the sweet girl face was lifted up in the moonlight, the 
tall shadow bent to meet it, and the robin, no doubt shocked 
at the sight, fluttered noisily back into her nest. 

The parting between mother and son was a sad and bitter 
one, yet Salome Rogers felt that it was best for her boy that 
he should seek new fields till the shadow of disgrace, that at 
present clouded his fair name, should be removed. 

So, leaving the home of his childhood, the mother whose love 
had been his all, and the. new hopes that had come to him in 
his young manhood, Harold took the burden of his future into 
his own hands, and in a western town commenced life anew. 
Believing, with the sublimity of a mother's love, in her boy’s 
integrity, Salome once more took up the thread of her lonely 
existence, waiting with infinite patience the dawn of brighter 
days. Sympathizing with Harold’s mother in her anxiety and 
sorrow, Ruth Holden confessed to “Aunt Salome” as she had 
been wont to call her, the secret of her love. Salome’s tender 
heart went out to the fair young girl who was her son’s choice, 
and together the two women waited and prayed for the ab¬ 
sent one. 

The weeks and months sped on, and Philip Holden’s col¬ 
lege days were over. With graceful ease he had carried off 
the highest honors of his class, and flushed and triumphant, 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


135 


had returned to his village home, there to receive the proud 
congratulations of his parents and friends. A check for five 
thousand dollars was placed in Philip’s hand by his grand-- 
father, yet his words of praise sounded cold and forced. It 
was from the lips of his cousin Ruth, however, that Philip 
longed, with an intensity of feeling little dreamed of by that 
innocent maiden, for the praise that would pay him for his 
greatest efforts. 

Throwing himself on the grass at her feet, as she sat one 
day in the garden, he gazed up at her with an odd expres¬ 
sion in his dark eyes. The July sunshine lay warm about 
them, and the air was full of the scent of roses. Pulling a fra- 
gant blossom from the bush close by, Ruth tossed it, with a 
mischievous laugh, into the upturned face, saying roguishly, 

“What a tragic look, cousin Philip.” 

Philip caught the rose with a swift gesture, and crushed it 
almost fiercely in his hand as he said in a low, earnest voice, 

“Why do you not congratulate me, Ruth? Are you not 
pleased at my success?” 

“Of course I am, Phil,” answered Ruth, a little constrained¬ 
ly, “are we not all very proud of our college boy?” 

“Pshaw! Ruth, that isn’t saying you care, and, oh! heavens, 
I would rather have you care than all the rest of the world 
put together,” and springing up Philip seized his cousin’s 
hands and holding them in a close grasp he went on breath¬ 
lessly, “ You think me only a boy, Ruth Holden, but I have 
a man’s heart in my breast and I love you as truly and deep¬ 
ly as though I was thirty instead of twenty.” 

Surprised, and a little frightened at Philip’s wild manner, 
Ruth forced herself from his hold. 

“Hush! cousin Philip, you must not say such things to me, 
I will not listen,” and she turned to leave him; but Philip 
caught her almost rudely by the arm and pushed her back 
into the garden chair. 

“You must listen to me, Ruth, I cannot keep still any longer, 
for I have loved you ever since we were children, and have 



136 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


dreamed, and planned, and worked with the one thought that 
some day you would be my wife. Have you no love for me, 
dear, dear Ruth?” 

“You forget, Philip, that we are cousins, and as such it 
would be wrong for us to marry; besides, I could never care 
for you in the way you desire, for I—I love another, ” and 
Ruth’s face grew as crimson as the roses beside her.” 

“Is it Harold Rogers?” cried Philip fiercely, his eyes glow¬ 
ing with a jealous fire, while his sallow cheek grew pale. 

“You have no right to ask, Philip, and I’ll not answer your 
question,” said Ruth defiantly. 

“Ha! Ha! I congratulate you on your choice, cousin Ruth. 
Harold Rogers, the thief,” and Philip laughed scornfully. 

“How dare you say such a thing. Harold is not a thief 
and you know it. But if he were I would marry him before 
I would a coward and a slanderer like Philip Holden,” said 
Ruth passionately, and wrenching herself from her cousin’s 
hold she fled from his presence. 

Almost beside himself with jealousy and disappointment, 
Philip started off for a long tramp in the woods, as if to hide 
in the depths of the gloomy forest the evil spirits that had 
taken possession of him. The silence of midnight had settled 
over the little village when the sound of carriage wheels rat¬ 
tling up to the farmhouse door, aroused Salome Rogers from 
her slumbers. Hastening to open it, she was met by two of 
the neighboring farmers bringing in their arms the apparently 
lifeless form of her nephew, Philip Holden. 

“What has happened?” she cried in alarm. 

“We found him lying unconscious beside the road on the 
outskirts of the wood,” answered one of the men. “He must 
have accidentally shot himself, for his gun was lying beside 
him and there is a deep wound in his right side.” 

At these words Salome’s motherly heart took instant fright, 
and without further questioning, she helped to get the poor 
boy into bed, while the men hastened to bring a physician and 
to notify his parents of the accident that had befallen their 
boy. For many days Philip’s life was despaired of, but at 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


137 


last the deadly bullet, that had narrowly escaped a vital part, 
was found, and though weak from the loss of blood, he was 
pronounced out of danger. Then it was that the spirit of 
remorse urged the unhappy boy to unburden his heart of its 
weight of guilt, and calling his aunt to his side he whispered 
faintly, 

“It was not an accident, aunt Salome, I shot myself inten¬ 
tionally. ’’ - 

“Oh! Philip! why should you do such a thing?” said aunt 
Salome shocked and distressed. 

“It was dreadfully wicked I know, but I did not want to 
live without Ruth’s love. But Harold is far more worthy of 
her than I am, for it is I who should be branded a thief and 
not cousin Harold.” 

Salome Rogers’s heart gave a great bound, and calling her 
sister Caroline from the next room, together they listened to 
the boy’s confession. It was he who had found the Professor’s 
pocketbook, and in his jealousy of Harold, who was fast out¬ 
stripping him in the race for honors, the mad scheme to ruin 
his cousin’s career had flashed into his mind, and hushing the 
voice of his conscience he had carried it out, with what suc¬ 
cess we all know. 

Like the golden key that opens the door of Paradise, seem¬ 
ed that brief telegraphic dispatch that came to Harold Rogers 
in that far-off western town. 

“Come home, your honor is vindicated.” 

As slow as a snail seemed the lightning express that bore 
him back to his native place, but the end of his journey was 
reached at last. Then, amid the general rejoicings that fol¬ 
lowed his arrival, he forgave and forgot the misery of the 
past six months. 

“The money is yours by right,” said Philip, handing Harold 
the cheek for the five thousand dollars, “I never could have 
won it fairly. ’ ’ 

With a feeling he could not explain, Harold refused to take 
it, so it was decided to divide the sum between them, and thus 
the matter was settled. A little later and grandfather Martin 



138 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


had passed to his long home, leaving the bulk of his fortune 
to his daughter Salome, whose tender care had brightened his 
declining years. 

In this world of joy and sorrow, clouds and sunshine, life’s 
changes follow swiftly one upon the other, and oft the clang 
of wedding bells drowns the last solemn strains of the funeral 
march. Thus it was that a quiet little wedding took place 
before many months had elapsed, and Ruth Holden became 
Ruth Rogers, and with Harold and his mother left the village 

of N- for a new home in the far west. In the years of 

prosperity and happiness that followed, Salome Rogers’s heart 
grew young again, and amid the household spirits that bright¬ 
ened the home of Harold and Ruth, purest and brightest of all 
shone that mother’s faithful love. 


ALMOST I DOUBTED. 


Almost I doubted, Lord. My heart was sore 
With many griefs, nor could I seem to rise 
Above the cares that weighed me down. Mine eyes 
Were blind to all thy mercies, all the store 
Of blessings round my path; and Faith’s pure door 
Seemed closed against me, and blackness filled my skies. 
When, lo! my vision clears, and hope swift flies 
To light my way, and darkness reigns no more; 

And through the clouds I lift mine eyes above, 

Where shines the glorious brightness of thy face. 

No more I’ll doubt thy wisdom or thy love, 

But humbly trust thy never-failing grace. 

And from the ashes of my weak despair 

Shall rise a faith more strong, more pure and fair. 







BREATH OF THE HILLS 


139 


A CHRISTMAS JUMBLE. 


The Rev. Samuel Simpson was helping his wife pack Christ¬ 
mas boxes. There were three of them, good-sized wooden 
boxes, of about the same dimensions. Although his mind was 
occupied with his unwritten sermon, he listened, with praise¬ 
worthy patience, to the good woman’s talk, as she sorted and 
arranged the contents of each box. 

“I do hope that Sabina Goodnow will accept these things 
in the right spirit,” said she, carefully folding a large woolen 
shawl, and placing it on one of the boxes, where already re¬ 
posed a pretty flannel wrapper, together with a pair of cro¬ 
cheted slippers and a warm hood. “But Sabina ’s so proud 
that I sometimes think she’d rather freeze than accept a favor 
from any one. However, it being Christmas, I’ve ventured to 
send her something useful. It does seem so senseless to give 
pin-cushions and tidies to people who need warm clothing. ’ ’ 

“So I thought, when I counted thirteen pin-cushions in the 
box the society have just gotten ready to send to the foreign 
mission,” said the minister a little dryly. 

Maria Simpson laughed, though she colored, too. 

“They are all stuffed with meal instead of bran, though, 
Samuel,” said she quickly. 

“A wise provision, truly,” said her husband smiling. “But 
is Sabina to have this also” continued he, holding up a large 
wax doll with golden curls and staring blue eyes. 

“Of course not, that belongs in the box I’m going to send 
to the Hawley children. I’ve gotten each of the boys a nice 
warm suit of clothes, and a dress and hood for little Mollie. 
A few toys won’t do them any harm either. Dear me, Samuel, 
what will become of those poor children? It does worry me so 
to think of their being all alone in that old farm house with 
no one to care for them.” 




140 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“The Lord will not forget them, Maria,” said the minister, 
softly. 

“Neither will I, Samuel,” answered his wife, warmly. “Per¬ 
haps I’m making a mistake in sending a box to Silas Colby, 
for people say that he really is worth considerable money in 
spite of his seeming poverty,” continued she, folding up a gay- 
colored dressing-gown, and placing it, with a pair of woolen 
slippers, in the bottom of the box. “I’m going to send him 
your last year’s overcoat, Samuel, for he did not wear one all 
last winter, and he looked so cold every time I saw him drive 
by to the village. I do hope he won’t feel offended,” and the 
kind-hearted woman sighed. 

A little later the three boxes were securely nailed and ready 
for marking. 

“Now, Samuel, won’t you please mark these boxes for me, 
for I am due at a teachers’ meeting shortly, and really must 
be going,” said Mrs. Simpson, then adding as she left the 
room, “You remember which is which, don’t you, Samuel?” 

“Oh, yes!” answered her husband, confidently. And then 
he slowly and carefully wrote the wrong address on every one 
of those boxes. 

In a small cottage house, some two miles out of the village 

of A- dwelt Sabina Goodnow, tailoress. She was a single 

woman of middle-age, and came from some of the finest old 
New England stock. 

In the long ago, the Goodnows had been a family of consid¬ 
erable means and position in the country where they resided. 
But circumstances, over which we poor mortals have so little 
control, brought about many changes, till the little house with 
its tiny garden plot was all that remained to her of a once 
handsome patrimony. Situated as it was, on the outskirts 
of the old Goodnow estate, she could look from her vine-shaded 
window far across rich fields, and see the roofs of the substan¬ 
tial old farmhouse and outbuildings which had once belonged 
to her family, but which was now owned by one Silas Colby, 
a silent, reserved man of rather miserly habits. In spite of 
herself, a feeling of bitterness would often fill her heart, as 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


141 


she thought of this man and the change the years had wrought 
in the rosy-cheeked lad, who had been her happy schoolmate 
in the days gone by. For many years a cold reserve had 
grown, like a wall of ice, between them, until but the briefest 
of nods was given in recognition when chance brought them 
together. Sabina’s life was a busy one, however, for, in order 
to keep the wolf from that humble door, her needle flew swift¬ 
ly, and she had but little time time for idle musing. 

And now the short December days had vanished one by 
one till the anniversary of that happy morn when 

Bethlehem’s star shone clear and bright, 

In the dawn of a winter’s day 

was at hand. Loudly the Christmas bells rang out their hopeful 
message from the belfry of the village church. Gloriously the 
sun shone, and turned to brightest jewels the icicles that 
fringed the roof of Sabina’s little porch, and dazzled her eyes 
as she opened the door in answer to a loud knock. 

“Hello, Miss Goodnow! Merry Christmas!” said Sam Peters, 
the village truckman, as he dropped a wooden box upon the 
step at Sabina’s feet. “Some one’s sent you a Christmas box, 
an’ I’ve got two more to deliver just like it,” and away he 
went, whistling merrily. 

Dragging the box into her little sitting-room Sabina quickly 
produced hammer and screw driver, and with a lonely woman’s 
aptitude, soon opened the box. 

“Dear me, what does this mean!” exclaimed she, lifting out 
a man’s heavy overcoat, woolen muffler an cap. “These things 
can’t be meant for me. There must be some mistake,” but 
no, there in written letters, with the blackest of ink, was “Miss 
Sabina Goodnow,” on the wooden cover. 

Of course her woman’s curiosity prompted her to examine 
the gay-colored dressing gown and slippers, and then her 
sharp eyes spied nestling in one corner a small paper-covered 
tract. Turning its first leaf she read, “Silas Colby, from his 
Pastor.” 




142 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


As if it were a live coal she dropped the innocent tract and 
sprang to her feet. 

‘‘The idea of the minister sending Silas Colby a Christmas 
box of clothing! ’ ’ exclaimed she, her eyes and cheeks sudden¬ 
ly growing warm. “Why that man hoards up every year 
more money than the whole of Parson Simpson’s salary. It’s 
no wonder people think he’s poor, though, he will go looking 
so shabby. This box just serves him right an’ I hope it ’ll 
make him feel ashamed of his miserly ways. Dear me, money 
must be the root of all evil, truly, it has changed Silas so, for 
he used to be one of the most generous-hearted boys in school. 
Well, I’m goin’ straight down to the village and see Parson 
Simpson, and tell him his box has got into the wrong pew this 
time.” As she spoke, she swiftly gathered up the offending 
garments, folded and placed them in the box, and then hastily 
preparing herself for her two-mile walk, she stepped out into 
the clear, cold air. 

Meanwhile, in the roomy old kitchen of Silas Colby’s farm¬ 
house, that person was bending over another open box, while 
surprised exclamations forced themselves from his usually 
reserved lips. 

“Well, I snum! if this aint the queerest Christmas box ever 
sent to an old bach! Any one ’d suppose that I had a house 
full o’ small fry by the looks o’ these jimcracks,” said he, lift¬ 
ing out, with clumsy fingers, a large wax doll that smiled up 
into his face with unabashed sweetness. A pair of skates, a 
ball and two jack-knives came next, together with a good big 
package of candy and nuts. Then he took up and examined 
with much apparent interest the nice warm clothing the minis¬ 
ter’s wife had so carefully prepared. At last he came to three 
bright-colored Christmas cards, and as he studied them ear¬ 
nestly he read aloud the names written upon each: “John 
Hawley, Tommy Hawley, Molly Hawley, from their teacher, 
Maria Simpson.” 

“Oh, ho, that’s who the box is for, sure! An’ a mighty nice 
present, too! But how Santa Claus happened to drop the box 
down my chimney is a mystery to me. Well, no matter how 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


143 


it got here, it won’t stay much longer, for I’m a-goin’ to hitch 
up an’ carry it over to them poor little children that hav’n’t 
any mother or father to make a Christmas for them, an’ I’ll 
add a little something on my own account, too!” and the so- 
called miser took from his shabby pocket-book a ten-dollar 
note and placed it carefully in the pocket of the coat meant 
for the eldest Hawley boy. A little later his sleighbells were 
jingling merrily, as he and the box were carried swiftly along 
the country road toward the Hawley farm. Suddenly a curve 
in the road brought him face to face with Sabina Goodnow, 
as she walked briskly over the crisp snow toward the village. 
The usual cool nod was given and returned, when an irresisti¬ 
ble impulse made Silas draw in his horse. 

“Wish you a merry Christmas, Sabina,” said he, a little 
diffidently. 

Sabina paused and glanced at him with cold surprise. 

“Thank you, Silas; I wish you the same,” answered she, 
slowly. Then, as her eye fell upon the familiar looking box, 
she added, quickly: “Where are you goin’ this morning, 
Silas?” 

“That’s just what I wanted to tell you, Sabina,” said he, 
brightening up at the change in her tone, and in a few words 
he related the incident of the Christmas box. As she listened, 
a peculiar expression came over Sabina’s face, and she laughed 
softly. 

“I guess Parson Simpson was thinking of something else 
when he marked his wife’s Christmas boxes,” said she, “for 
Sam Peters brought one to my house this morning, too. And 
though my name was on the cover, your name was in the in¬ 
side of the box.” 

“Sho! you don’t say,” answered Silas, wonderingly. “I’m 
sure it’s mighty clever of the Parson’s wife to send me a 
Christmas box. What was in it, Sabina?” 

Sabina Goodnow’s sharp eyes glanced quickly at the man’s 
shabby coat, and a stinging retort was on her lips, but as she 
met the kindly, honest glance bent upon her, she hesitated. 



144 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Suppose you drive over and get it, Silas, and see for your¬ 
self,” answered she, slowly. 

“Well, just as you say, Sabina,” said Silas, evidently pleased 
with the chance to call at the little cottage. “But I guess it’ll 
keep till I’ve been over to the Hawleys’ with this box. Say, 
Sabina, you don’t feel like goin’ along with me, do you? Seems 
to me a woman’s face would be mighty welcome to them poor 
little motherless critters?” 

“Why, yes, Silas, I’ll go with you, an’ be glad to,” an¬ 
swered she, stepping briskly into the sleigh. “I’ve been think- 
in’ for some time I’d get over there an’ see to them children 
myself. It’s near two months now, since their mother ’n’ 
father died, an’ it aint right for them to be left alone there 
any longer. If the selectmen don’t do something about it pret¬ 
ty soon I’m a-goin’ to take em all home with me an’ take care 
on ’em myself,” continued she, earnestly, as they drove along. 

Silas glanced admiringly at the trim figure beside him. 

“Your heart ’s in the right place, Sabina, sure,” said he, 
cordially. 

“I hope so, Silas, an’ it aint made of stone, either,” an¬ 
swered she. 

Where is there a more desolate looking object, in all this 
great world of ours, than a tumble-down old farmhouse, in the 
winter! Shorn of its picturesque covering of vines and flowers, 
it stands bare and bleak, with falling shingles, and loosened 
clapboards. Its shutterless windows stare out over the frozen 
hilltops with the pitiful glance of sightless eyes, and with its 
crumbling fences, its rotting well-sweep, it is a blot upon the 
landscape. 

Before just such a ruined homestead, Silas Colby and Sabina 
Goodnow paused, and with the Christmas box between them 
they walked into the house. The sight that greeted them was 
certainly a surprise, for there, in the midst of that gloomy kit¬ 
chen, stood Maria Simpson’s third Christmas box. Gathered 
about it, with disappointed faces, were the three children, 
while its contents were strewn over the floor. Ten-years-old 
Johnny, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, looked the 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


145 


picture of manly scorn, though Tommy’s eight years could not 
quite suppress his quivering lips and tear-dimmed eyes, and 
poor little Molly, with her face buried in the folds of the 
woolen wrapper, was sobbing bitterly. 

Silas dropped the box he carried, with a surprised exclama¬ 
tion, but the puzzled look in Sabina’s face suddenly changed 
to one of conviction, as, with but a brief greeting for the 
startled children, she bent over the box. Yes, there it was, 
the little paper-covered tract, and “ Sabina Goodnow, from her 
Pastor,” was written upon its first page. The swift uprising 
of that inherent pride, of the true New England woman, threw 
a tone of bitterness into Sabina’s voice, as she said: 

“Well, Maria Simpson ’s done her duty this year, if she 
never did before. These things are meant for me, Silas,” 
added she, showing him the tract. 

“That’s so, Sabina, an’ I’m right glad for you, too,” said he, 
with a man’s usual obtuseness at the working of a woman’s 
mind. 

The Hawley children’s disappointment was soon changed to 
gladness, as the contents of their rightful Christmas box were 
disclosed to them: and could the Parson’s good wife have 
listened to their shouts of joy and merry laughter, she might 
well feel satisfied that one at least of her Christmas boxes was 
truly and honestly appreciated. Silas and Sabina busied them¬ 
selves all that lovely Christmas day in making more comfort¬ 
able the home of the little orphans. No thought of the strange¬ 
ness of their position seemed to occur to either of them, for, 
forgetful of self, they worked, with a singleness of purpose, 
in caring for those of whom it is said, “Of such is the king¬ 
dom of Heaven.” 

In the early twilight they drove up to Sabina’s little cot¬ 
tage home, and as they stepped inside, Silas said, 

“Well, now, Sabina, I suppose I can see what Parson Simp¬ 
son ’s sent me for Christmas. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Silas, you can, an’ I hope you’ll accept it in the 
right spirit,” answered Sabina, unconsciously quoting Maria 
Simpson’s words in regard to herself. 



146 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Of course I will, Sabina/’ said he, but when he took up the 
minister’s cast-off coat, a dark red stole up into his sunburned 
face. For a moment he did not speak, while his eyes fell upon 
his own shabby clothes, and his color mounted higher. 

“Do I look so dreadfully poverty-stricken, Sabina?” ques¬ 
tioned he at last. 

“Yes, Silas, you do,” answered she with unflinching hon¬ 
esty. 

Silas carefully folded the coat, and placed it back in the 
box. Then seating himself, he turned to Sabina with a face 
from which the color had faded, leaving it pale and stern. 

“It’s mighty hard for a man to be misunderstood, and 
called a miser, just because he doesn’t choose to wear fine 
clothes, or to explain his business to the whole county. But 
it cuts me the worst, Sabina, to be misjudged by you of all 
others, for it’s for you I’ve been a savin’ and hoardin’ up the 
income of the old place all these years,” said he. 

“For me! why Silas Colby!” cried Sabina astonished. 

“Yes, an’ when I die the whole on ’t belongs to you. It 
never did seem right that the last o’ the Goodnows should be 
kept out of the property, an’, an’, well years ago, when we 
was both younger, I used to thing that perhaps you’d be will¬ 
in’ to take me along o’ the place. But you’ve been so sort o’ 
distant an’ independent these late years, I’ve sort o’ given 
that up.” 

Sabina’s eyes fell before the earnest gaze of the man before 
her. 

“I never dreamed of such a thing, Silas,” murmured she in 
a low voice. 

“No, I don’t suppose you ever did, Sabina. I was always 
such a plain sort of a man, ’taint likely you could a-done it, 
anyhow. ’ ’ 

Silas paused, and Sabina’s color rose to a warm crimson. 

“But, Silas, you should have asked me and found out,” she 
said quickly. 

Silas Colby sprang to his feet. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


147 


“You don’t mean to tell me you’d a-said ‘yes,’ do you, Sabi¬ 
na?” he almost shouted. 

Just what she did say is really no business of ours, but that 
it was satisfactory to Silas the sequel proves, for a few weeks 
later the Rev. Samuel Simpson made them man and wife. 
Having given the minister the usual fee, Silas handed him a 
substantial check, saying, 

“Just you distribute that among your poor folks, Parson, 
all except the Hawley children, for Sabina ’n’ I are a-goin’ to 
adopt the three on ’em an’ take ’em to live with us.” 

The astonished Parson and his good wife discussed at length 
the strange turn of affairs among their supposed poor people, 
but they never knew it had all been brought about by the 
jumble the minister had made with those Christmas boxes. 


TO DOROTHY. 


I would not that thy skies be always fair, 

My Dorothy, or that thy path with flowers 
Be strewn; but that God’s blessed sun and showers 
In equal measure fall. ’Tis this my prayer. 

For if thou knew not aught of pain or care, 

Thou couldst not taste so sweet a joy as ours, 

Who, having both, accepting each as dowers 
From God, find Him revealed, and thus our share 
Of joy, outweighing pain, grows sweet and pure. 

And if thou ne’er wert tempted—’tis no gain 
To conquer where no foes attack; but sure 
Of grace above, the fiercest foes are slain. 

And Dorothy, I would thy heart with love 
Be filled; and, lastly, dwell with God above. 






148 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


AUNT CALISTA’S VALENTINE. 


How it snowed! Faster, and faster fell the tiny flakes, whirl¬ 
ing about in the air in a wild dance, before settling into great 
white drifts along the roadside. 

Alas! that such a storm should have have come upon the 
night of St. Valentine. Surely it was enough to cool the ardor 
of Cupid himself. But, heedless, of the whirling flakes, the 
arrows of that sturdy little god were flying about in all direc¬ 
tions, finding the tender spots in human hearts, as they have 
in ages past and will for long years to come. Doorbells were 
ringing, while youthful feet were scampering amid half sup¬ 
pressed laughter. 

On the corner of a pretty street, in a comfortable little vil¬ 
lage, was a small white cottage house. The snow-flakes had 
piled high against the windows and doors, yet failed to hide 
the shining door-plate that told who dwelt within. “Calista 
Curtis, Dressmaker” it read, and there was not a person in 
that whole village but what was proud of that name, or who 
did not feel an interest in the busy little spinster who bore it. 
A plump, fresh-complexioned, happy-dispositioned woman who 
carried her thirty-five years with the air of a girl, yet being a 
bit old-fashioned she never sought to conceal her age, or 
seemed conscious of her own youthful looks. The owner of 
said cottage, with a good business and a snug sum laid by for 
a rainy day, she seemed content to spend her days in single 
blessedness. For though both bachelor and widower had 
sought to alter this decision, her answer was always the same. 
If in the golden days of youth there had been a lover who had 
gained what they could not, none knew it, for Calista Curtis 
was not one to wear her heart upon her sleeve. With a mar¬ 
ried sister living near, whose boy and girl called her “Aunt 
Calista”, the name had grown familiar to all, and was often 
good-naturedly used by other than her own kin. .. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


149 


The little sitting-room all aglow with fire and lamplight, 
seemed a bower of comfort to Calista as she listened to the 
snow dashing against the window-panes and whirling around 
the corner of the house. Many had been the pranks the chil¬ 
dren had played upon her all day, till the ringing of the door¬ 
bell brought only a smile to her lips as she bent over her sew¬ 
ing, while her needle flew the faster. Suddenly a long, loud 
peal of the bell caused her to spring from her chair with an 
impatient cry: 

“They’ll break the bell-wire if they don’t look out,” mut¬ 
tered she hurrying to the door. A gust of wind extinguished 
the light as she peered into the darkness. The storm beat in 
her face, and she was about to turn back, when her foot 
stumbled against something that stood upon the step close to 
the open door. Surprised, she bent and saw a large market 
basket, covered, and with a card attached to the handle. “I’d 
like to know what those children will do next!” said Calista, 
as she tugged at the heavy basket, half carrying, half drag¬ 
ging it into the lighted room. “Mercy! how heavy it is. 
Guess it’s a mess of puppies, or a settin’ hen, or—” by this 
time the cover was off and Calista dropped to the floor in as¬ 
tonishment. Nestling amid warm blankets securely wrapped 
about it, was a plump baby girl, fast asleep. A card was pinned 
to its dress, and her astonishment grew more intense as she 
read its written message: 

“A Valentine for Aunt Calista.” Wonderingly she gazed at 
the sleeping child, whose regular breathing and softly flushed 
cheeks told of the slumber of perfect health. Golden curls 
clustered about the little round head, and silken lashes of 
deeper brown fringed the white eyelids. Between the rosy 
parted lips tiny white teeth were visible, while the rounded 
chin showed the touch of the angel’s kiss, in the sweetest 
dimple imaginable. 

“You precious little beauty, who are you and where did you 
come from?” at length burst from Calista as she lifted the 
baby from its warm nest and rose to her feet. Up flew the 



150 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


white lids, and two great brown eyes looked wonderingly into 
her face, and the rosy lips took a downward curve. 

“There, there, baby, don’t cry,” said Calista, kissing the 
grieved lips and walking swiftly about the room as she soothed 
its fears. Evidently Miss Baby was used to this sort of treat¬ 
ment, for she immediately burst into a gurgling laugh, plunged 
her chubby fists into Calista’s hair, and kicked her small feet 
against her in wild glee. 

“Where did you come from, you jolly little witch?” cried 
she, pausing for breath, but baby only crowed the louder, giv¬ 
ing her hair a final twitch which loosened it till it fell in a 
great coil to her waist. With a laughing shake of the little 
rogue, Calista placed her on the floor while she gathered up her 
hair, and examined more closely the contents of the basket. To 
her surprise it was closely packed with the baby’s wardrobe, 
all of the finest material and dainty needlework. Then be¬ 
neath the whole was an envelope addressed to herself. Her 
fingers trembled as she lifted it and for an instant a feeling of 
dread took possession of her. Was it a presentiment of com¬ 
ing evil? Who can tell? A slip of paper fell from the en¬ 
velope as she tore it open, and her startled eyes saw that it 
was a check for one hundred dollars. A closely written page 
followed, and as she devoured the words, every particle of her 
rich coloring faded from her cheeks. 

Motionless, as if turned to stone, she stared at the paper in 
her hand, till the soft touch of the baby’s hand brought her to 
herself. With a sudden rush of tears, she gathered the child 
into her arms and bowed her head against its sweet face. 

“Oh! my lost youth,” she cried brokenly. 

A little later, and the new arrival was quietly sleeping in 
the midst of Calista’s bed, while that good woman bent over 
the innocent baby with such a look of loving kindness, of un¬ 
selfish devotion, that could its own parents have seen it they 
would have known that their darling was in good hands. 

“I accept the trust,” whispered Calista softly, “and may 
God so do to me, if in aught I fail thee my sweet little Valen¬ 
tine. ’ ’ 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


151 


As every one knows, it often happens that sisters are deci¬ 
dedly opposite in both character and personal appearance, and 
so it was with Calista Curtis and her sister Alvira Cummings. 
Although wife and mother, Alvira was what people call “a 
born old maid.” Sharp featured, sharp tongued, and prim 
in all her ways, a model housekeeper, to be sure, yet utterly 
devoid of that faculty which makes the true home. 

The mistress of one of the smartest houses in the village, the 
wife of a well-to-do-farmer, she yet toiled early and late. Her 
two children, a boy of eight and a girl of six, were respectively 
called, Rob and Sally. Passionately fond of their Aunt Calista, 
the little cottage was often the scene of such childish revelries 
as were never allowed them in their own prim home. 

“Ma, ma!” cried Rob, bursting into the kitchen and track¬ 
ing the snow over the spotless floor, “Aunt Calista ’s got a 
baby. ’ ’ 

“It turn in a basket,” put in Sally, breathlessly, as she kicked 
the snow from her little shoes. 

“Stop talking such nonsense, children, and go and wipe your 
feet,” said Mrs. Cummings, as she marched them to the door. 

“ ’Taint nonsense ma, it’s a baby, a really, truly baby,” said 
Rob, indignantly pulling away from his mother. “Aunt Calis¬ 
ta says it’s a valentine.” 

“A valentine is it, well, why do you call it a baby then?” 
said their mother impatiently. 

“’Cos ’tis a baby,” persisted Rob, a little sulkily. “Guess 
I know a baby when I hear it cry.” 

“Me hear it cy too,” echoed Sally, her voice taking on a 
mournful note. 

“I never heard such foolish talk as Calista has, even before 
those children. I’m just going to give her a piece of my mind,” 
muttered Mrs. Cummings, her curiosity at last aroused. Hasti¬ 
ly throwing on her outer garments she started for her sister’s 
house, the two children following. The sight that met her eyes 
as she opened the door of the pretty cottage home so paralyzed 
her tongue, that for a moment she was speechless. In a rocker 
before a cozy open fire, sat Calista with the baby in her arms. 



152 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


A bowl of water and other articles necessary for a child’s 
bath were beside her. The half clad baby was laughing and 
throwing up its tiny hands to catch the drops of water as Ca- 
lista softly bathed the rosy face. A smile of ineffable sweet¬ 
ness glorified her own features as she ministered to the little 
child in her arms. The noise of the opening door startled her, 
and for an instant her face was crimson as she turned it toward 
her sister. 

“Calista Curtis, where did you get that child?” cried Alvira 
when she recovered her voice. 

“It was left here last night during the storm. There is the 
basket it came in,” answered Calista, quietly going on with 
her work. 

“Well, I declare! if some folks ain’t got the cheek. And 
you a single woman too,” said Alvira, as she examined the 
basket and its contents. “Looks if they intended you to keep 
it too, by all these clothes.” 

“Yes, that is what I’m going to do,” said Calista. Alvira 
sprang to her feet. 

“You must be crazy to think of such a thing,” cried she, 
excitedly. “What will folks think. An old maid like you?” 

Calista flushed again at her sister’s coarse tone. 

“I cannot help what people think, Alvira, I couldn’t be so 
cruel as to forsake the child placed in my care.” 

“It ain’t any more cruel than its own parents were to send 
it here in a snow storm,” answered her sister. “Ain’t there 
no clue as to where it came from, or who its folks are?” 

Calista’s face was bent over the child in her arms as her 
sister spoke, and she made no reply. 

“Mighty queer there ain’t no name on these clothes,” con¬ 
tinued Alvira. “How old should you think the baby was?” 

“About a year, it seems to me,” answered Calista. “And I 
am going to call her Valentine.” 

Alvira Cummings looked at her sister a moment in silence. 

“Well! if you ain’t the softest fool out,” cried she at last. 
“How are you going to do any business with a baby to take 
care of?” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


153 


“I shall do what I can and the rest must go,” said Calista 
quietly. 

“If I ain’t mistaken, the most of it will go with that child 
on your hands,” said her sister with a short laugh; “and mark 
my words, Calista Curtis, that valentine, as you call it, of 
yours, will bring you bad luck.” With these words, she 
grasped the children by the hands and hurried out of the 
house. 

A shiver swept over Calista as the door closed upon her, and 
for an instant a dark shadow seemed to settle over her spirit. 
Then as her eyes met the baby’s wondering gaze, she smiled 
quickly into its questioning face. 

“Good luck, or bad luck, His all the same to me,” said she, 
kissing it tenderly. 

Like wildfire the news of Calista Curtis’ strange valentine 
swept through the village. For many days the little cottage 
was besieged with callers. 

Much surprise was expressed at her determination to keep 
the child, even after several offers had been made to provide 
it with a good home. 

“The child was sent to me to care for and I will not betray 
the trust imposed upon me, ’ ’ she said quietly but firmly to one 
and all. 

“But whose child can it be and why should it have been left 
at your door above all others?” they questioned. 

“I cannot tell,” answered Calista briefly. 

Gradually a feeling that Calista knew more about the child 
than she was willing to disclose, took possession of them. 

’Tis but a small thing that turns the current of the world’s 
opinion. 

A word dropped here and there, a shrug of the shoulders, 
a lifted brow, a significant smile, and the thing is done. For 
the first time in her life Calista Curtis felt that a shadow 
rested upon her. Cruel, unjust, malicious. The friendly 
glance became an inquisitive stare. The cordial voice held in 
it a tone of reserve, and the warm hand clasp grew limp and 
cold. One by one her customers dropped away till but few 



154 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


remained. With the keen perception of a sensitive nature, 
Calista suffered cruelly. Not for an instant, however, did she 
waver in her faithful devotion to the child placed in her care. 
Day by day and week by week her love grew stronger, until 
those tiny, baby fingers held within their clasp the whole of 
her woman’s loving heart. With the coming of each year, on 
the fourteenth of February, a letter was sent to Calista notify¬ 
ing her that a sum of money had been placed in the village 
bank to her credit, and always with this message: “To be 
used for Aunt Calista’s Valentine.” 

And so the months and the years sped onward. From baby¬ 
hood to girlhood, from girlhood to womanhood, came with 
swift transition. In spite of the mystery attached to her birth, 
Valentine Curtis was ever a favorite among the village people. 
Beautiful in form and feature and gifted with such qualities 
of mind and heart as one seldom finds, she was a queen among 
the simple village girls with whom she was reared. At an 
early age Calista had told her the circumstances of her being 
placed in her care, also of the money which was sent for her 
support and education. 

“Never doubt the wisdom of your elders, Valentine,” she 
had said in conclusion. “Believe in and trust to the affection 
which surrounds you, even though you know not its source, 
and in good time all will be made plain to you. ’ ’ 

So, although dwelling in that humble cottage home, Valen¬ 
tine felt no lack of loving care, or the advantages which money 
supplies. With the passing years gossiping tongues had ceased 
to wag, and no cruel whisper had reached the ears of the child 
they had all learned to love for its own sweet sake. The im¬ 
pregnable wall of reserve which surrounded Calista, however, 
they could not overlook, for what village will forgive a mys¬ 
tery it cannot solve? 

Sometimes our bitterest foes belong to one’s own household. 
In her secret heart Alvira Cummings cherished a feeling of 
biterness toward her sister for withholding from her what 
she believed she could tell—the secret of Valentine’s birth. 
Jealously she watched the beautiful child blossom into a lovely 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


155 


girl. Proud of her own children, she could not bear to find 
in this little waif richer gifts of nature than were given her 
own offspring. 

Again it is the fourteenth of February and Valentine Curtis’ 
eighteenth birthday. Unlike that other day so long ago, when, 
amid that bitter storm Calista had found her strange valentine, 
the sun shines gloriously, the air is clear and cold and filled 
with the sound of merry sleigh-bells. A natty little sleigh 
dashes up to the door of the cottage where dwells Calista Cur¬ 
tis, and out springs a handsome young man and runs up the 
steps, two at a time. 

“Aunt Calista!” he calls, as he throws open the door un¬ 
ceremoniously. “Tell Val to hurry up, the sleighing is 
fine and it’s too bad to lose a single moment.” 

“All ready, Rob,” answers the sweetest voice in the world, 
and Val steps out to meet him. Such a radiant vision! Robert 
Cummings draws in his breath quickly, and his heart throbs 
with a deeper feeling than the cousinly regard he is supposed to 
cherish for this fair girl. Surely the promise of her childhood 
has been richly fulfilled. A skin of dazzling whiteness, with 
just a tinge of color on cheek and lip. Golden brown eyes full 
of brilliant lights, and hair of a soft, rich bronze, fine and soft, 
which clings in dainty rings about her face. Even white teeth 
show with every dimpling smile that parts the rosy lips, and 
who can wonder at the young man’s folly. Added to these 
charms the plump little figure is clad in a tasty cloth suit, with 
fur-trimmed jacket and jaunty hat, a source of much satis¬ 
faction to Rob, who, having but lately returned from college, 
considered himself a good judge of female attire. 

With the air of a princess Val steps into the sleigh and away 
they fly over the frozen ground, to the sound of jingling bells 
and merry laughter. 

To Valentine Curtis and Robert Cummings has come the 
first intoxicating knowledge of mutual affection. To them that 
old, old story is marvelously sweet and beautiful. All the 



156 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


world is glorified by love’s tender glow. To them the present 
hour is joy unspeakable, while the future stretches out before 
them in one long vista of blissful delight. 

In her cottage home sits Calista with an open letter in her 
hand. Her face is pale with intense suffering as she bends 
over its closely written pages. The letter reads: 

My Dear Friend, 

At last I am coming home to relieve you of the burden you 
have for so many long years borne for me. Faithfully and 
nobly have you kept the promise you gave one who is so un¬ 
worthy of such generosity. No words can express the grati¬ 
tude I feel for your unselfish devotion to my motherless child. 
You tell me that she has grown into a beautiful girl and that 
you love her as your own. God bless you for those words, my 
truest of friends. Surely it was His hand which guided me to 
you on that fearful night so long ago. If a man can expiate 
his youthful follies by years of self-denial and toil, then the 
mistake of my life is atoned for. But now I can bear the 
separation no longer, for while I am rich in money, I am poor, 
alas! so poor in affection’s ties. I long to see my daughter, 
and to clasp hands once more with the truest and noblest wo¬ 
man man ever called his friend. 

From your old friend and schoolmate, 

JOHN DICKENSON. 

< Backward rolled the years from Calista as she read these 
lines. Visions of other days came before her eyes with startl¬ 
ing vividness. Days when John Dickenson had been her play¬ 
fellow, schoolmate, and friend. Long summer days filled with 
youthful pleasures and sweeter dreams. Then John’s trouble 
with his father, who was pastor of the little Baptist church, 
because of his refusal to follow in his father’s footsteps. His 
sudden flight from home, with but one wild note to Calista. 

No word of love had passed between them, yet Calista had 
never dreamed of a future but that as John Dickenson’s wife. 

Years of silence, then that fearful night when, in the storm* 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


157 


and darkness, had come to her that dear child that had been 
the light of her life for so long. With trembling fingers she 
once more took from its hiding place that old letter which 
told her of John’s marriage to a beautiful actress, the baby’s 
birth, his wife’s death and his return to his old home with his 
motherless child, only to find his parents dead, his home gone. 
Then in his despair he had turned to Calista, yet fearing a 
refusal of his request, he had conceived the idea of placing the 
child in her care as we have seen. With man’s thoughtless¬ 
ness he had pledged her to secrecy as to the baby’s parentage, 
little dreaming of its effect on this good woman’s life. And 
now he was coming to claim his own, to take from her the 
joy of her life. Was it not too cruel? 

“I cannot bear it,” she murmured, with bowed head and 
falling tears. 

“For pity sakes what is the matter, Calista?” cried Alvira 
Cummings, walking into the room. “Who are your letters 
from? Any one dead?” 

A wild desire to unburden her heart of the secret it had 
hidden so long, came over her, but a second thought told her 
to wait a little longer till the return of John Dickenson. 
Gathering up the letters, Calista folded and put them away 
without a word, her sister watching her curiously. 

“You are mighty close-mouthed, Calista, I must say,” said 
Alvira, a little bitterly. “You never tell your business to 
any one.” 

“Why should I?” answered Calista, quietly. 

“Folks would think lots more of you if you did,” said Al¬ 
vira. “For my part I can’t abide secrets anyhow.” 

At this moment sleigh-bells were heard and the two women 
glanced quickly out of the window. As the sleigh paused be¬ 
fore the door, a dark flush swept over Alvira’s face. Lifting 
his cousin from the sleigh with tender care, Robert and Valen¬ 
tine walked into the house with smiling, happy faces. As 
Robert’s eyes fell upon his mother, he went swiftly to her 



158 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


side and kissed her lovingly. Then holding out his hand to 
Valentine, who blushed deeply as she stood beside her lover, 
he said impulsively: 

‘‘Mother dear, Valentine has promised to be my wife. Am 
I not a lucky fellow ?” 

For an instant his mother’s face was livid with suppressed 
rage. Then with an effort she controlled herself. Rising to 
her feet she said, coldly: 

“You are a headstrong, foolish boy, Robert, to ask any girl 
to be your wife without my consent.” 

“But, mother, you—you give it, of course, do you not?” he 
stammered, in his surprise, while Valentine grew pale as mar¬ 
ble. 

“Never, Robert Cummings, shall you marry that nameless 
waif with my consent!” answered she, bitterly, as she hastily 
left the house. 

With a moan of intense anguish, Valentine turned from her 
lover and threw herself into Calista’s arms. 

“Tell me, tell me now, Aunt Calista, who am I?” she sobbed. 

Yes, darling, I will. It is too cruel to keep it from you 
longer,” answered Calista, holding the girl close. “And your 
father will be here shortly to prove my words, and to give you 
the name and home which are rightly yours.” 

My father! exclaimed Valentine, while Robert, throwing 
himself into a chair, listened eagerly to his aunt’s words. 

Briefly, Calista told them the story so strange yet true. The 
shadows of an early twilight were gathering about the little 
group as they talked, and they heeded not the footsteps upon 
the walk outside. Not until the little maid of all work had 
ushered into their midst a tall stranger, did they waken from 
that long look into the past. 

“Have you no welcome for me, Calista?” said a voice, that 
for so long had been dead to her ears, and Calista knew that 
John Dickenson stood before her. 

It is a strange thing, this meeting after long years! With 
what eager, searching glances one seeks for a trace of that 
long ago youth! Ah, well! youth is but a transient thing, and 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


159 


maturity has compensations it dreams not of. So, as these two, 
whom the years had so long divided, yet who were bound to¬ 
gether by a mutual interest, gazed into each other’s eyes, they 
felt that out of the mistakes of the past had come to them that 
which would lighten and bless all their future years. 

The return of John Dickenson to his boyhood’s home, and 
the strange story of his life, was a nine days’ wonder in the 
village. 

But when a few weeks later a double wedding w r as solem¬ 
nized in which John Dickenson and Calista Curtis, Robert 
Cummings and Valentine Dickenson were the contracting 
parties, how the gossips ’ tongues did wag. 

It was harmless gossip, however, and everybody was happy, 
even Alvira Cummings, whose hard heart was softened and 
made tender by the magic touch of the gold which would some 
day belong to Aunt Calista’s Valentine. 


TRUE LOVE. 


True love lives on forever; 

True love forsakes one never; 

Midst time and tide, where’er abide, 
Its chains no power can sever. 


True love flies not from sorrow, 

But ever seeks to borrow 
A little cheer for those most dear, 
And hopeth for the morrow. 






160 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


EASTEK HOPES. 


The twilight shadows were darkening the corners of the lit¬ 
tle room where Persis Baldwin was sitting. Her bowed head 
with its loosened hair was held close to the piece of sewing in 
her lap. Swiftly her needle added a few more stitches, and 
then, with a long-drawn sigh, she leaned back in her chair. 

The last rays of the setting sun still lingered in the western 
sky and threw a faint light across the girl’s face as it was 
turned toward the window. Fair and sweet it was, with sunny 
hair and blue eyes that were full of dreams; untouched by 
sorrow or the world’s wisdom, and yet strong and full of 
earnest purpose. Happy thoughts flew like summer birds 
through her mind, and her fingers rested caressingly against 
the work in her lap. 

Her wedding dress! Ah! what a world of meaning is con¬ 
veyed in three small words! Sweet and tender are the visions 
they bring to Persis’ loving heart. Pure and holy her dreams 
of the future; exalted her ideal of wifehood and— 

“Persis! Persis! are you never going to light the lamps and 
bring me my tea?” called out a querulous voice from an ad¬ 
joining room. 

“Yes, mother, I’m coming,” answered Persis, springing up 
with a sudden start, and present duties sweep away the vision 
of future joys. 

In the little village where dwelt Persis Baldwin and her 
widowed mother, the young girl was beloved by young and 
old. Left at an early age with the care of an invalid mother, 
she had acquired a sweet womanliness and the gentle patience 
that comes to those who in youth take up the burdens of life. 
With limited means, that required the exercise of considerable 
economy in the arrangement of their affairs, Persis and her 
mother were yet far removed from real poverty. A pretty 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


161 


cottage on the outskirts of the village, together with a small 
income insufficient for their simple wants, placed the two wo¬ 
men in the ranks of the “ well-to-do ’’ people of the place. 

So it was that no social gathering seemed complete, no 
church fair, sewing-circle, or tea-party as successful or harmo¬ 
nious as when Persis Baldwin’s sweet face and bright wit 
graced the occasion. Bound, as she was, by the ties of affec¬ 
tion and duty to the bedside of the poor invalid, her opportu¬ 
nities for recreation were, however, few and far between. 

From the time she was a little child Persis Baldwin and 
Wallace Newton were friends and companions. Her playmate 
and schoolmate in childhood, her friend and lover in girlhood, 
he had won at last the highest place a man can fill in a wo¬ 
man’s heart, and was soon to be her husband. The coming 
Easter, now near at hand, was to see tnem made man and wife, 
and Persis’ busy fingers had nearly completed the wedding 
dress and woven into every stitch her happy thoughts. 

None but pleasant anticipations filled her mother’s heart 
for Persis’ future, for instead of losing her daughter she was 
to gain a beloved son in whom she was well pleased, and the 
fife at tl*e cottage would go on the same as before. 

Wallace Newton had reached his twenty-fifth birthday with¬ 
out ever having been outside of the State in which he was born. 
The son of the village doctor, he had followed in his father’s 
footsteps, studied under his direction for a time, and finally 
taken a course in a medical college, and was now a full-fledged 
M. D. In the first glamor of his love for Persis Baldwin, he 
had decided, for her sake, to hang out his sign and strive to 
build up a practice in the little village, and, as long as her 
mother lived, to dwell with them in their cottage home. 

Cooler thoughts followed, however, and ambition pointed to 
broader fields of usefulness and larger and more golden re¬ 
wards in the far West. Secretly jealous of Persis’ devotion to 
her mother, and irritated by the thought of there being any 
hindrance to their freedom, he was not in the pleasantest of 
moods as he sat by the cheerful grate fire in Persis’ cosy par- 



162 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


lor one evening late in March. The blustering wind roared 
down the chimney and made the logs blaze up with a brilliant 
glow that played across the two youthful faces. 

Save for the firelight the room lay in shadow, and Persis 
had failed to discern the faint scowl that lay between her 
lover’s handsome, dark eyes. Her own eyes, filled with a ten¬ 
der light, were dreamily watching the glowing embers, and her 
round cheeks were growing a deeper carnation from the 
pleasant warmth. A long silence had fallen between them, 
when, with an impulsive movement, Wallace bent toward 
Persis, saying,— 

“Do you realize that Easter is almost here, Persis?” 

“Yes,” answered she softly, a dimple showing in one cheek. 

“Are you glad, dear?” he continued, with his face close 
to hers. 

Persis’ eyes met his with a glance that was answered by a 
swift caress. 

“But,” said Wallace, “you are to promise to love, honor 
and obey, and, according to Scripture, must be willing to leave 
father, mother, and all other friends, for my sake. Is your 
love strong enough for this, Persis?” 

“How strangely you talk, Wallace,” said she, looking at 
him more earnestly in the dim light. “Surely you cannot 
doubt my love at this late hour!” 

“No, no, Persis. I do not doubt your love,” said he, rising 
hastily and moving about the room. “But it has never been 
tested as I am about to test it. 0 my darling, do not fail me!” 
and he drew her toward him passionately. 

A slight shiver of apprehension swept over Persis, yet she 
answered, calmly and sweetly,— 

“I will not fail you, dearest. Tell me what you wish.” 

With quick, nervous strides, Wallace moves about the little 
room, while Persis watches him with anxious eyes. 

“I have had an offer of a large practice in a Western town,” 
he commenced, abruptly—‘ 4 an offer that it would be the height 
of folly for me to refuse. I have no practice here, nor am I 
likely to have for many years. I know you thought to remain 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


163 


here with your mother, but, dear, your first duty is to your 
husband. Do you not think so, Persis?” he ended, pleadingly. 
Her first duty! Persis’ heart began to beat heavily. 

“I do not think that I quite understand you, Wallace,” she 
said, slowly. “You wish to accept this offer, and to go out 
West to live after—after we are married, and you speak as if 
I must leave mother here. ” 

A dark cloud swept over Wallace’s face that, in spite of the 
dim light, Persis could not but see. 

“She never could stand the journey,” he muttered, quickly. 
“I cannot leave her behind, Wallace.” 

“Why not, Persis? Other girls leave their parents when they 
marry, why should not you?” 

“But mother is sick—and old—and alone.” Persis’ voice 
broke, and she covered her face with her hands. 

“Your brother John should care for her; it is his place,” 
continued Wallace, hardening his voice. 

“Brother John has a delicate wife and four little children, 
who have the first claim to his care,” murmured poor Persis 
through her wet fingers. 

“And is a wife’s duty less than the husband’s? Should you 
not care for him before all else?” argued he, clumsily. 

“Perhaps,” answered Persis, dropping her hands from her 
face and looking at him with steady eyes. “But you forget, 
Wallace, that I have no husband yet.” 

“But you will have soon, dear,” said he, tenderly. 

A slow pallor crept over the girl’s face, yet a steady light 
burned in her eyes. 

“I think not, Wallace,” said she, quietly. 

Wallace Newton’s face grew crimson with suppressed anger, 

and his eyes gleamed fiercely. 

“Do not play the coquette, Persis,” cried he, hotly. “I am 

too much in earnest to be trifled with. 

“I have not trifled with you,” said she, calmly. 

“Yet you speak as though we were not to be married at 

Easter,” said he. 

“I cannot leave my mother.” 




164 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“You will not, you mean!” cried he, angrily. 

“I cannot!” she still murmured through white lips. 

By this time the passionate anger that had taken possession 
of him was at white heat, and taking his coat and hat in his 
hand, he walked swiftly toward the door. 

“So your love will not stand the test,” said he, with a sneer. 

“No, it will not stand the test,” she repeated, mechanically. 

“Then I give you back your promise. Good-bye.” 

The door opened and shut, and he was gone! 

The smoldering log in the fireplace crumbled and fell with 
a fitful glare. The darkness of night settled 'over the girl’s 
bowed head, and hid from all human eyes the bitterness of her 
grief. 

Great was the surprise of the village people when the news 
of the broken engagement was spread abroad; and the sudden 
departure of the young M. D. added excitement to the general 
gossip. What was the real cause of the rupture between the 
young people no one could tell, for not even to her mother did 
Persis reveal the truth of the matter. With quiet patience 
she bore her fretful questionings, and bravely fitted her shoul¬ 
ders to the cross they must carry. 

On Easter morning she filled her accustomed place in eliurch, 
and listened with grave attention to the words of the sermon. 
Heedless of the curious glances cast in her direction, her res¬ 
ponses were made in her usual clear tones, and as the choir 
sang, “Rejoice, rejoice, let all the earth rejoice,” her heavy 
heart sought to rise above its selfish sorrow and join in the 
grand jubilee of earth’s resurrection. Alas! poor human heart. 


The long summer days slowly passed into oblivion. The 
autumn foliage crimsoned, grew brown and sere, and fell to 
earth. But when the winter’s snow whitened the housetops, 
Persis Baldwin’s mother began to fail. The fatal disease that 
had so long held her in its grasp tightened its hold, and with 
a sinking at her heart Persis realized that she would soon be 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


165 


motherless. Bitter was the agony of the long weeks that fol¬ 
lowed, wdien, even amid her constant anxiety for her poor 
mother, there would come that weary longing for the love 
and sympathy that had gone out of her life. Struggle as she 
would to dethrone her girlhood’s ideal, her woman’s heart had 
not yet learned its lesson of renunciation. 

Surrounded by many kind friends among the village people, 
there was one among them who understood the girl’s heart as 
none other. Alvin Douglas was not only a sincere friend to Per- 
sis and her mother, but for several years he had been her pastor. 
To him had been given the privilege of watching the growth 
of a beautiful Christian spirit in the young girl. His had been 
the hand that had made the cross of baptism upon her brow, 
and administered her first sacrament. It was to him that Per- 
sis had been wont to go for advice and guidance when trials, 
both spiritual and material, had assailed her; and yet, in the 
hour of her first real sorrow, she had closed her heart’s cham¬ 
ber and sealed the door of her lips, that none but her God 
might see the grief within. But Alvin Douglas had not failed 
to read the girl’s secret, nor his keen penetration to divine 
the real cause of Persis’ broken engagement. Daily he watch¬ 
ed her silent heroism, and while he sorrowed for her, he exulted 
in the sacrifice she had made. When the end came, and Mrs. 
Baldwin’s long martyrdom was over, all that a true friend and 
faithful pastor could do to comfort her bereavement Alvin 
Douglas did for Persis Baldwin; yet it seemed to him but a 
drop from the ocean of pity that filled his heart. 


The weeks slipped by, and spring has come again. Once 
more the frozen heart of winter is melted by April’s smiles and 
tears. Once more the hidden life buried beneath the silent 
earth springs up anew and tells again the story of the resur¬ 
rection in the shooting grass, the bursting buds, and the un¬ 
locked streams. Once more the anniversary of our Saviour’s 
awakening is celebrated far and wide, and Easter Sunday 
dawns again upon the Christian world. 






166 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


The little village church is sweet with the scent of flowers, 
and the organ peals out a glad welcome to one and all. Among 
the stream of worshipers who pass up the narrow aisle glides 
Persis Baldwin’s black-robed figure. The experiences of the 
past twelve months have left their mark in the pallor of her 
cheeks and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Calm and 
sweet are those same blue eyes, however, when, a little later, 
they meet the eager glance of Wallace Newton’s dark orbs, 
where from an opposite pew he is intently watching her. A 
faint pink steals into the white cheeks, and for an instant her 
lids droop, then once more the steady light burns in the eyes 
that are lifted to the minister’s face during the remainder of 
the sermon. 

In the little burying-ground beside the church, Wallace 
Newton stands impatiently waiting, and as Persis walks down 
the path he holds out a detaining hand. 

“Will you not forgive me, and bid me welcome, Persis?” 
said he, in a low voice. 

“Welcome home, Wallace,” answered Persis, holding out 
her hand, though her lips trembled as she spoke. 

“I could not stay away longer,” continued he, earnestly, as 
together they paced the narrow walks between the leaning 
headstones; “for though I have been wonderfully prosperous, 
my life is incomplete without the woman I love. Will you not 
forget my angry words, Persis, and let me make a home in the 
West for you and your mother?” 

Persis looked at him questioningly. 

“Have you not heard?” she said, slowly. 

“Heard what, Persis?” 

“That my poor mother is dead?” answered she, sadly. 

With a start of surprise that Persis’ true eyes saw was not 
real, Wallace answered quickly,— 

“Poor Persis! how sorry I am for you. But, surely, now 
that you are so utterly alone, you will not refuse to come to 
me.” 

For a moment the girl did not speak, and her eyes looked 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


167 


thoughtfully over the sunlit fields to the sky beyond till they 
seemed to reflect its blue radiance. Then turning to the man 
before her, she said, quietly,— 

“It is too late, Wallace. I cannot go with you.” 

“Persis, Persis, is your love for me all gone?” he cried, 
eagerly. 

“Yes, Wallace, that, too, is dead.” 

“Then, indeed, I am too late,” said he, bitterly; and, lifting 
his hat, he walked swiftly away. As Persis listened to his re¬ 
ceding footsteps, the last piece of her crumbling idol fell to 
earth and was no more. 

With a swift impulse, Wallace turned and looked back to¬ 
ward the place where he had left Persis standing, but she was 
gone. Down the street two figures were walking slowly— 
Alvin Douglas and Persis Baldwin. As Wallace glanced at 
the faces a light flashed across his vision, and as if by a sudden 
prophecy he knew that the sweet hope that had sprung up in 
the minister’s heart would meet its fulfilment. 


RECONCILIATION. 


A Sonnet. 


0 eyes that oft with tender love didst glow, 

Whose golden depths were filled with sunny gleams, 
That warmed my heart by day, and blessed my dreams, 
Why art thou now so full of grief and woe, 

And gaze at me in sad reproach, as though 

I’d hurt thee sore, and thus had quenched the beams 
Of light that brightened all my life? Seems 
Thou didst me mistake; I meant not go, 

But come. So smile, dear eyes, and let not grief 
Throw shadows that shall dim the love so true; 

For in this world, where joy at best is brief, 

We cannot well afford for folly rue, 

Or waste the few short hours of earthly bliss 
In tears; so come, then, dear, be friends and kiss. 







168 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


THE PINEVILLE WOMAN’S CLUB. 


There was great excitement in the little town of Pineville. 
Not since the time when the minister preached his sermon 
from Shakespeare instead of the Bible, had there been such an 
agitation among its sleepy inhabitants. Groups of men stood 
about on street corners talking earnestly. Others lounged 
upon the steps of the country store gazing eagerly at every 
passer. Now and then, as a woman hurried by, one would ex¬ 
claim, 

“There goes one on ’em now!” and the other would reply, 

“Sho! you don’t say!” while they both stared at the wo¬ 
man as if she were a visitant from another world. Inside the 
store the same unusual stir prevailed. Jake Wetherell, the 
storekeeper, leaned over the counter, listening eagerly to all 
that was said. 

What did ye say ye wanted, Si?” he asked as a little old 
man shuffled up to the counter, hitching up his trousers as he 
went. 

“Safety-pins, Jake. Give me a whole gross on ’em,” an¬ 
swered the man. 

Jake Wetherell grinned appreciatively. 

“So Alvira’s jined too, has she, Si?” 

“Course,” answered Si Holbrook, thrusting one of the pins 
through a hanging supender, and drawing a long breath as it 
snapped into place. “An’ I don’t expect to get a button 
sewed on for the next ten years.” 

“Who started the thing, anyhow, Si?” asked Jake. 

Well, es near es I can make out the whole thing sprung out- 
en Sam Peters not let’in’ Lucinda have a hired girl last sum¬ 
mer.” 

La, sakes! what s that got to do with this ’ere woman’s 
club, Si?” said Jake, staring hard at the other. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


169 


“Why, you see ’t was sort o' this way,” answered Si, set¬ 
tling himself comfortably on a sugar barrel, while he rested 
one foot on a firkin of butter. “ ’Long about hayin’ time, Lu¬ 
cinda got kinder tuckered out, an’ told Sam he’d have to hire 
a girl, for she jest couldn’t do the work any longer. Now 
Sam ’s a putty good sort of a feller, only a leetle close-fisted 
’bout money matters, an’ he fired up an’ says he wouldn’t 
allow any sich extravagance in his family; that women folks 
made altogether too much fuss over doin’ a few chores about 
the house, that any man could do while they were a-jawin’ 
about ’em. Now this did seem sort o’ hard talkin,’ I’ll allow, 
’cause Lucinda ’d been a gettin’ up all summer at four o’clock 
in the mornin’ an’ cookin’ the meals for Sam an’ five hired 
men, * sides lookin’ after his old mother that’s all crippled up 
with rheumatis’, an’ Lucinda up an’ struck, as one might say, 
then an’ there. She jest told Sam that es long es he didn’t 
mind doin’ a few chores about the house, she guessed she’d 
take a leetle vacation. She’d been a-wantin’ to go down to 
Bosting to visit her cousin Miranda Walker for the last five 
years, an’ she guessed this would be es good a time es any. 
Now Lucinda had a leetle nest egg she’d been a-savin’ to buy 
a new set o’ parlor furniture, an’ she told Sam that she guess¬ 
ed ef she didn’t have some sort o’ change soon, she’d be where 
she’d have no use for a parlor set anyhow, an ’ she’d take that 
money an’ go to Bosting. An’ I snum, she did the very next 
day. Sam, he fussed around a few days an’ then got Drusilla 
Jacobs to come an’ keep house for him, an’ she’s been there 
ever since.” 

“Ye don’t mean to say that Lucinda haint got back, do ye?” 
asked Jake in surprise. 

“Oh, la! no. She stayed down to Bosting about two months, 
but when she came back ye never seen sich a changed critter. 
She was es plump an’ rosy, an’ looked es peart an’ trim es a 
young gal. She had on a gown that looked es if it had jest 
growed there, it was so slick. She told Alvira it was built by 
a tailor in Bosting, an’ was awfully swell. Her hair was 
histed up over a cushion off’n her forehead an’ made her look 



170 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


’bout two inches taller ’n she was. She said that pompadoos 
was all the style in Bosting, an’ gave on sich an intellectual 
air. She’s all the time a-talkin’ ’bout woman’s rights, woman’s 
clubs, bicycle ridin’, progressive whist, an’ a lot more lingo 
that there don’t seem to be no sense in no how. She’s kept 
Drusilla Jacobs to do the housework, ’cause she says she’s got 
through bein’ a man’s dredge, an’ is a-goin’ to cultivate her 
brain the rest of her life an’ improve her talents. She sub¬ 
scribed for four magazines, two weekly papers, an’ has brought 
home a whole trunk full of novels. Sam acts sort o’ dazed 
like, an’ he told me privately, that somehow he didn’t feel 
acquainted with Lucinda, she was so changed.” 

“But what about this new fangled club that’s stirred every¬ 
body up so?” said Jake impatiently. 

“Don’t hurry me, Jake, I’m a-gettin’ there es fast es I can,” 
answered Si, lifting his other foot on to the butter-firkin, and 
tasting a lump of sugar from the next barrel. 

“Lucinda hadn’t been home more ’n a week or so when she 
went to see every woman for miles around, an’ ef she haint 
stirred up a hornet’s nest, I’ll gin up. She said she was a-or- 
ganizing a woman’s club, an’ every self-respectin’ woman 
must jine. It didn’t take more ’n a minute to get ’em all 
started, for women air jest like cattle, ye let one on ’em take 
a header in one direction an’ they ’ll all rush pell-mell atter 
her. I tell ye what, Jake, there’s a-goin’ to be a revolution in 
every house in town, or my name’s not Si Holbrook.” Si 
paused a moment to eat another lump of sugar and then went 
on with his story. 

“Jo Commings’s wife Betsy has sold her churn to buy a 
dictionary, an’ they air sending all their milk to the creamery 
instead o’ makin’ butter on ’t, an’ Bill Thompson ’s sold his 
south acre lot an’ gin the money to Tryphena to buy a lot o’ 
books on English literature.” 

“How ye do talk, Si, I never ’d a thought that o’ Bill 
Thompson,” said Jake almost breathless with astonishment. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


171 


“Well, Tryphena alius did have Bill sort o’ under her thumb, 
I’ll allow, an’ Bill ’ud do ’most anythin’ to please her,” an¬ 
swered Si, his mouth full of sugar. 

“But what do they do at this ere woman’s club, Si, any¬ 
how ? ’ ’ 

“Do, oh! they read papers they’ve writ on all sorts o’ 
things consarnin’ women, such es the higher edercation o’ 
woman an’ sich like.” 

“Alvira Snow’s a-writin’ a paper on ‘The Evolution o’ 
Thought,’ I tell ye what, Jake, it ’s wonderful how quick a 
woman ’ll ketch on to all this new-fangled lingo. Alvira’s 
paper’s ’mazin’ peart, an’ chuck full o’ big words. She bor¬ 
rowed Betsy Commings’s new dictionary ’cause there wa’n’t 
enough in our old one to express her idee. These air pushin’ 
times in our town, Jake, pushin’ times, an’ I guess I’d better 
be a-gettin’ along home afore all the fires go out, ’cause, la! 
Alvira wouldn’t know it ef things were all friz up, she’s so 
excited over her evolution paper. Say, Jake, I guess ye might 
es well do me up a few crackers, a couple o’ pounds o’ cheese, 
an’ a pound o’ codfish, that ’ll sort o’ keep us along till Alvi¬ 
ra’s paper ’s writ.” 

The old man clambered down from the sugar barrel, and 
with his hands filled with his purchases he left the store, while 
Jake Wetherell gazed after him, muttering under his breath, 

“Well, I snum! ef it don’t beat all.” 

The little village of Pineville, nestling among the hills and 
mountains of one of our Northern states, was so isolated from 
the outside world that the wheel of progress had whirled by, 
leaving not one trace of its passing. A dozen or more houses 
clustered together formed its center, though most of its people 
lived upon farms a few miles out. One little church was its 
only spiritual center, while one country store supplied all the 
material wants of its inhabitants. In a diminutive corner of 
this store was the post-office, though so few letters ever found 
their way to its pigeon holes, it had but small significance to 
anyone. 

No railway connecting the little village with the outside 



172 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


world, the summer boarder had not discovered its beauties, or 
brought to its people even a glimpse of life as it really was. 
Thus it was that the customs of its inhabitants remained as 
they had been for more than half a century, and it would 
seem that nothing short of an earthquake would ever arouse 
them from their lethargy. However, when Lucinda Peters re¬ 
turned from her trip to Boston, and started a woman’s club in 
their midst, it certainly had the effect of a small earthquake 
upon the sleepy little village. Every man, woman and child 
felt the changed atmosphere, and the excitement increased as 
the days went by. Jake Wetherell’s store being the head¬ 
quarters for the male gossips of the place, groups of them 
lounged about discussing the matter, at all hours of the day. 
Nearly every man felt the disquieting influence in his own 
household, and resented it bitterly. What right had the wife 
of his bosom, she who had ever looked upon him as her lord 
and master, to join a woman’s club without his consent? What 
right had she to neglect even the smallest task, that she might 
scribble her silly thoughts on paper, or pore over books whose 
titles, even, had so little meaning for him? It was a breaking 
away from the old customs of his father, and his forefather. 
The old ways were good enough for him, why not for her? 

“I tell you what, Jake, this ere thing has got to be put a 
stop to!” said Jo Commings fiercely, and emphasizing his 
words with a blow of his huge fist on the counter that made 
all the tin boxes rattle. 

“Lucinda Peters had ought to be arrested for a-stirin’ up the 
community in this ere fashion. I haint had a good square meal 
since the thing begun, nor a button sewed on either. 

“Jake ’s got a sluice o’ safety-pins, Jo, that I reckon he’d 
like to sell ye. I’m a-usin’ of ’em all the time now, ’stead o’ 
buttons, an’ like ’em first-rate,” drawled Si Holbrook good- 
naturedly. 

“Safety-pins!” sniffed Jo, contemptuously. “I haint got es 
fur es usin’ of ’em yet, an’ I don’t intend to, either. Now 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


173 


come on, boys, an’ we’ll settle this business right now. The 
women air havin’ a meetin’ over ’n the schoolhouse this after- 
noo, an’ I’m goin’ to it, ef I aint invited.” 

A half dozen men sprang up and followed Jo, as he started 
for the door, Si Holbrook shuffling along after them. 

1 ‘Now, boys, I aint approvin’ o’ this ere disturbin’ o’ wo¬ 
men folks. Jest let ’em alone, an’ it ’ll work itself out in a 
little while, gin ’em rope enough,” expostulated Si, as he hur¬ 
ried along, but no one paid any attention. 

It was a clear, cold afternoon in early spring, and the little 
red schoolhouse was all aglow with sunshine and warm with 
a roaring fire in the air-tight stove. Twenty women were 
seated about the room, the slim ones crowded into the small 
benches, while the more corpulent were seated comfortably on 
the tops of the old-fashioned desks. Lucinda Peters occupied 
the teacher’s chair upon the little raised platform. The meet¬ 
ing was in full swing and Alvira Holbrook was in the middle 
of her paper on “The Evolution of Thought,” when a loud 
knock was heard on the door. Alvira paused in her reading, 
but Lucinda shook her head, and she continued to the end. 
Bap, rap, rap, went the knocks upon the door, and then with 
a rude push it was thrown violently open. Some of the wo¬ 
men screamed, others sprang to their feet, or crouched trem¬ 
blingly in their seats as the men trooped in, led by Jo Com- 
mings. Lucinda Peters rose in her seat and faced the intru¬ 
ders. 

“To what am I indebted for this intrusion, gentlemen?” 
said she with quiet dignity. Jo Commings walked up and 
rapped on the desk with his whip-handle. 

“Now, look a-here, Mis’ Peters, we men have come here to¬ 
day to put a stop to this ere club o’ yourn. We air satisfied 
with our wives jest es they be now, ’thout all this ere book- 
larnin’ ye air a tellin’ ’em to get on to. We don’t want any 
newfangled notions put into their heads, an’ we aint a-goin’ to 
have ’em, either. You’ve stirred up this community an’ made 
trouble in every house in town an’ the thing has jest got to 
stop here. Betsy Commings, you walk straight out o’ this an’ 




174 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


come home with me,” added he to his wife, who was perched 
upon a desk in the further corner of the room. With cheeks 
that turned first red and then white, the young woman left 
her seat and walked slowly to where her husband stood. 
Grasping her roughly by the arm they were about to pass from 
the room, when Lucinda Peters’s voice arrested them. 

“Stop! I forbid any person from leaving this room until I 
have vindicated myself from the accusations of this man, whose 
manners, I judge, were borrowed from the cattle he breeds, 
and whose eyes can see no higher than the earth he plows. 
You say that I have stirred up this community. If such is the 
case, I rejoice in it, for it is time that we were awakened to 
the fact that we are human beings, with brains to think, and 
souls to feel. That there is a higher order of living than the 
mere eating and drinking, sleeping and working existence we 
have known so long. That outside this sleepy village, that has 
been like a prison to many of us, is a great world where music, 
art, culture abound, and though we are debarred from sharing 
its joys, we can learn of it, keep in touch with it, through the 
books we are all privileged to read. Not willingly have I 
made trouble in any household. I have only striven to better 
the condition of my own sex, and to awaken them to new am¬ 
bitions. There are no class of women in all the world who 
so nearly approach mental starvation as the farmers’ wives. 
Dwelling at a distance from city or town, they have scarcely 
any reading matter except the Bible, the farmer’s almanac, 
and an occasional newspaper. Working, as many of them do, 
from four in the morning until ten at night, they are physical¬ 
ly worn out, and the mental faculties have no chance whatever. 
In starting this woman’s club, I had hoped to arouse not only 
the women, but the men through the women, to an interest in 
mental culture, that they might not pass through this life 
knowing nothing of the beauties of the great world around us, 
or be deprived of the intellectual joys we are all entitled to. 
If there are any of my friends and neighbors who will stand 
by me in this undertaking, the Pineville Woman’s Club may 
yet be a success.” As Lucinda ceased speaking, six women 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


175 


arose, and with a smile, Lucinda continued, “Gentlemen, you 
have failed in your object. The meeting is now adjourned 
until another week.” 

Slowly and silently the men filed back to Jake Wether ell’s 
store, astonishment seemingly depriving them of their powers 
of speech, Si Holbrook chuckled softly as he seated himself 
on the sugar barrel and tasted a lump from the one beside him. 

“Jake,” said he, after a little, “I feel jest es ef I’d been to 
meetin’. Lucinda Peters gin us a sermon that beat the minis¬ 
ter al to nothin,’ an’ I’m thinkin’ ’t won’t be all thrown away, 
neither. La, Jake, when ye come to think on ’t what a lot o’ 
time we menfolks has ’tween hay ’n’ grass to loaf round this 
ere store. Yet the womenfolks’ work don’t ever seem to be 
done. From mornin’ till night, day in an’ day out, three hun¬ 
dred an’ sixty-five days in a year, they air peggin’ away a- 
doin’ of the same sort o’ work. Now I don’t believe ’t would 
hurt any on us menfolks to ease ’em up a bit, an’ gin ’em 
more time to read an’ think out their putty thoughts. I snum. 
Jake, sense Alvira writ that ere paper on evolution, it’s gin 
me a heap o’ things to think on. I seem to feel same es Sam 
Peters does ’bout Lucinda, thet I aint much acquainted with 
Alvira even if we have lived together goin’ on forty year. 
Now, I’m fur havin’ this ere woman’s club stay put, an’ I 
’m a-willin’ to help it all I can. La! I don’t mind a-doin’ a 
few extra chores round the house, nor eatin’ of—there! that 
makes me think, I guess, Jake, ye might do me up a few more 
crackers, a couple o’ pounds o’ cheese, an’ a pound o’ codfish, 
they’ll come ’n sort o’ handy when Alvira starts in to write 
her next paper.” 


Glorious sunshine, Heaven’s boon, 
Putting forth thy strength at noon, 
Showing us in one short hour, 

All thy great and wondrous power. 




176 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


WHAT HAPPENED TO HANNAH. 


“ ’Taint a mite likely that anything will ever happen ‘ round 
these parts; nothin ’ ever has, an ’ nothin ’ ever will, ’ ’ muttered 
Hannah Peabody, as she stood in the open doorway and glanced 
discontentedly up and down the long country road. “Dear 
me, I suppose I’m dreadful wicked to feel so kinder restless 
an’ oneasy, when the Lord has given me health an’ a moderate 
amount o’ comforts, an’ work enough to keep me busy most o’ 
the time. But somehow there is such a dreadful sameness to 
it all; one day’s as much like another as two peas in a pod. 
I’ve done the same things year in an’ year out, accordin’ as 
the seasons come around, for the last twenty years, an’ there 
aint a single thing of any importance happened since sister 
Sarah got married an’ went West to live. I suppose I’m lone¬ 
some ’thout Sarah, an’ that’s one thing that makes me feel so.” 
Hannah sighed as she sank down upon the doorstep and with 
her elbows upon her knees, and her chin resting between her 
palms, she went on with her musing. “Folks are alius a-sayin’ 
they shouldn’t ’a’ thought I’d ’a’ let Sarah get married, seein’ 
we was all there was left, an’ had property enough to live on. 
Just as though I could ’a’ stopped it! La! Sarah was clean 
daft over Eben Whitney an’ everyone knows that marriage is 
the only cure for that trouble. Well, Eben ’s been a good 
husband to her, as husbands go, though for my part I’m goin’ 
on forty an’ I’ve managed middlin’ well ’thout one so far.” 
A little smile dimpled the corners of Hannah’s mouth as she 
spoke. “Goodness knows ’taint no man ’t I’m a-pinin’ for!” 
she burst out, springing up and “shooing” a hen energetically 
from off the broad stone step. “Though I’m that anxious for 
somethin’ to happen, I wouldn’t much care whether there was 
a man mixed up in it or not. Anything for a change.” 

Steppin’ out into the road Hannah’s keen eyes looked rest- 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


177 


lessly from side to side. The afternoon sun was beginning its 
westward journey, and the trees cast cool shadows across the 
dusty highway. Par beyond her range of vision the road lay 
straight and level for several miles. Suddenly a cow trotted 
slowly across the road and disappeared in an adjacent corn¬ 
field. 

“If there aint one o’ Joe Peters’s cows a-trampin’ through 
my corn!” exclaimed she, picking up a stick and hastening 
after the offending animal. As if glad of something on which 
to expend her surplus energy, Hannah walked swiftly down 
the road until the sight of a strange object standing directly 
in her path drove all thoughts of the cow from her mind. With 
its glossy coat of varnish, its gleaming silver lamps, its high- 
backed seat with crimson cushions, stood one of the latest in¬ 
ventions of modern travel, an automobile. Now, though per¬ 
haps Hannah may have read of this new kind of vehicle, the 
actual sight of one standing, solitary and alone in that quiet 
country road was surely an astonishing vision. Its owner was 
nowhere in sight, though Hannah’s swift glance scanned the 
bushes and shrubbery along the roadside. Curiosity overcom¬ 
ing her surprise, Hannah stepped up to the strange carriage 
and examined it closely. 

“I snum! if this aint about the cutest thing I ever did see!” 
muttered she, placing her hand upon the crimson seat that 
yielded gently to her touch. “My, aint these cushions soft! 
I’d jest like to try ’em to see how they set.” 

Hannah gave a swift glance backward, but no one was in 
sight, and with a sudden impulse she stepped carefully into the 
carriage. Seating herself comfortably upon the yielding cush¬ 
ions, she leaned back with a luxurious sigh. 

“Seems kind a spooky ’thout any horse hitched to it,” said 
she aloud. “Makes me think o’ when I was a little girl an’ 
played go to ride in grand-pa’s old carryall. Well, I suppose 
I’d better get out afore any one comes an’ catches me.” 

With the conscious thrill of a stolen pleasure, Hannah was 
about to descend, when she accidentally placed her hand upon 



178 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


the shining lever. Silently the wheels began to turn and to her 
horror and dismay she found herself gliding swiftly along the 
smooth road. 

“Whoa!” she cried, forgetting in her excitement the in¬ 
visible power that governed this wonderful carriage. “Whoa! 
I say. Oh, dear! why don’t the pesky thing stop? Whoa! 
whoa! whoa!” 

The last word ended in a shriek that seemed to be echoed 
by another voice as a man’s figure came running out of the 
woods, shouting and waving his arms wildly. 

“Stop! stop!” he cried. 

“I can’t! I can’t!” screamed Hannah, leaning wildly for¬ 
ward with outstretched arms as if holding the reins of an in¬ 
furiated animal. 

“Turn the lever!” shouted the man, but Hannah and the 
horseless carriage had vanished in the distance. On, on they 
sped, past farmhouses and fields of ripening corn, through 
shady bits of wood, and beside long fields of turning hay. A 
cow stood chewing her cud in the shady road before them, and 
Hannah closed her eyes with a shudder at the thought of the 
collision. But the cow ran as never a cow ran before, and on 
they went. Faster and faster they seemed to fly till the whole 
landscape whirled before Hannah’s terrified vision. A man 
with a load of hay turned swiftly to one side as he spied the 
strange vehicle speeding toward him, and as it passed his eyes 
stood out in astonishment. 

“Hannah Peabody, by thunder!” he cried, turning to look 
after the flying carriage. 

As she was borne onward Hannah’s feelings were a strange 
mixture, of mingled fright and pleasure. The thought that 
some evil spirit had heard her wish that something might hap¬ 
pen, and had taken possession of her bodily, was firmly rooted 
in her mind, and mingled with her terror was an unholy pleas¬ 
ure in the situation. Come what would, this swiftly gliding 
motion, this flying through the air with the breezes fanning 
her brow and tingling her cheeks, was a delightful sensation, 
a hitherto unknown pleasure never dreamed of by Hannah 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


179 


Peabody. But suddenly the thought of the railless bridge in 
the turn of the road not far before them, made the woman’s 
heart stand still with dread. Desperately she grasped the lever 
before her as if to steady herself, and unconsciously she 
turned it in the right direction. Slowly and gently the car¬ 
riage paused in its wild career, and stood still. 

As much astonished at this abrupt ending of her ride as she 
was at its beginning, Hannah slowly and tremblingly climbed 
down to the ground. 

“For the land sakes, Hannah Peabody, where did you come 
from?” called out a woman’s voice. “Aint you got lost?” 

Glancing up, Hannah saw one of the neighboring farmers’ 
wives driving toward her in an open buggy. Not for the 
world would she have that gossiping Susan Comings know of 
her adventure. Moving swiftly toward a house on the opposite 
side of the road, she answered, coolly: 

“Not that I know of, Mis’ Comings. I’m a-goin’ to make 
a call.” - 

The woman drew in her horse and gazed curiously at Han¬ 
nah’s bare head. 

“Aint you afraid of a stroke ’thout your hat on, Hannah?” 
asked she. 

For the first time Hannah realized her bonnetless condition, 
yet her ready wits did not forsake her. 

“ ’Taint the fashion to wear hats this summer,” said she, 
with a laugh, “an’ you might as well be out o’ the world as 
out o’ the fashion.” 

“Sho! I didn’t suppose you cared as much as all that for the 
fashion, Hannah.” Suddenly her eyes rested on the carriage 
standing so quietly by the roadside. “Dear me, if there aint 
Dr. John Wheeler’s horseless carriage. Must be some one’s 
sick in that house, Hannah. Who lives there anyway?” But 
Hannah evidently did not hear, for with her hand upon the 
brass knocker, she stood silently waiting admittance. 

“Seem ’s if Hannah Peabody got more high an’ mighty 
every year,” muttered Susan Comings, as she drove slowly 
homeward. 




180 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 




As the sound of Hannah’s knock died away, a man s voice 
called out: 

“Come in.” 

Hannah pushed open the door and stepped inside. The 
long, low room, opening out of the entry, seemed deserted, 
and a feeling of regret at her imprudence in walking into this 
strange house made her pause before advancing further. A 
slight groan startled her, while a man’s voice again spoke. 

“If that’s the doctor, please come right in, for my leg’s 
feelin’ mighty bad, an’ I’m powerful ’fraid it ’s broke.” 

Hannah’s womanly sympathy was aroused by these words, 
and she hesitated no longer. 

“I aint no doctor, an’ I only called as I was passin’ to ask 
for a drink o’ water. But if I can do anything to help you 
I’ll be only too glad, seein’ as you’ve got hurt.” 

As she spoke Hannah walked into the room and toward a 
low couch upon which lay a man’s tall figure. At the sound 
of her voice he turned and looked earnestly up into her face. 

“Hannah Peabody!” exclaimed he, holding out his hand 
with a smile. 

“Joe Thompson!” The name slipped softly from Han¬ 
nah ’s lips, as with her hand clasped in his the man and woman 
gazed into each other’s eyes. A slight flush erept into Hannah’s 
face and she slowly drew her fingers from his hold. 

“So you’ve come home again, Joe, after twenty years,” 
said she, quietly. 

“Yes, Hannah, an’ the first thing I’ve done is to fall from 
the hay mow and break my leg,” answered Joe with a laugh 
that ended in a groan. 

Silently Hannah bent, and gently drawing off the shoe and 
stocking, she began bathing the swollen foot and ankle. A half 
hour later the doctor pushed open the door and walked in. 
He looked hot, tired and dusty. 

“I’ve had a nice time getting here, Joe!” exclaimed he, 
throwing aside his coat and hat and wiping the perspiration 
from his flushed face. “A woman ran off with my carriage 
and I’ve had to foot it for the last three miles. I stopped to 









BREATH OF THE HILLS 


181 


get a drink of water from the spring in the wood just below 
the Peabody place, and when I came out I saw the carriage 
and a woman disappearing down the road like a streak. I 
expected every minute there would be a smashup, and I’ve 
ran most of the way. But there stands my automobile in front 
of your house as sound as a nut. Now I’d like to know w r hat 
became of that woman?” 

* 4 Well, here she is, doctor,” said Hannah, walking in from 
the kitchen where she had gone for a pail of fresh water. 

4 ‘What, you Miss Peabody!” cried the doctor in surprise. 
“How did you happen to run off with my carriage.” 

“I didn’t, it ran off with me,” answered Hannah, laughing. 
“The cushions looked so kind o’ soft an’ invitin’ I thought 
I’d just try ’em a minute to see how they set, an’ the thing 
started afore I could get out. I hope I didn’t hurt nothin’, 
doctor.” 

Dr. Wheeler stared a moment at the woman’s cool tone. 

“But how did you happen to stop without an accident?” 
asked he. 

“How do you usually stop the thing?” replied Hannah, 
Yankee fashion. 

“By turning the lever,” answered the doctor. 

“Well, I reckon that ’s just what I did,” said Hannah. The 
doctor laughed. 

“It was lucky you stopped where you did or you might have 
gone off the bridge a little further on,” said he. 

“Yes, I thought of that,” answered Hannah quietly. 

Dr. Wheeler’s eyes twinkled merrily as he turned away and 
proceeded to apply his professional skill to Joe’s fractured 
limb. 

“Now, Miss Hannah,” said he when Joe had been made as 
comfortable as possible. “If you’ll stay and look after my 
patient, I think he’ll be as good as new in a month or six 
weeks. ’ ’ 

“A month or six weeks!” repeated Hannah, slowly. 

“Please stay, Hannah,” spoke up Joe, pleadingly. Hannah 
glanced swiftly from one to the other before she answered. 




182 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Well, it don’t seem exactly Christian-like to leave a man 
helpless an’ alone. So as long as I’m here I suppose I’d bet¬ 
ter stay.” 

“That’s right, Miss Hannah, I thought you’d feel so about 
it. I quite agree with you,” and with a smiling good-night, 
the doctor stepped into his horseless carriage and whirled out 
of sight. 

When they were left alone, Joe’s voice first broke the silence. 

“I’ve been wonderin’, Hannah, if you’d ever changed your 
mind ’bout that question I asked you twenty years ago? I 
aint never found another woman that I could like half so well 
as I did you, an’ so I’ve sort o’ let ’em all alone. But somehow 
I couldn’t make up my mind to live an’ die out West, an’ so 
after I’d made my pile thought I’d come East again, an’ if 
you was still Hannah Peabody I’d put the question to you once 
more. I’ve bought this place, an’ though it aint any better ’n 
the one you’ve got, it would be sort of a change. You couldn’t 
make up your mind to stay for good, could you, Hannah?” 

For a moment Hannah did not speak, then with a smile that 
broadened with her words, she answered: 

“Well, Joe, I don’t know but I could, for as you say, ’t 
would be sort of a change, anyhow.” 


ON THE BOCKS. 


O’er the distant tree-tops glowing, 
Gleams the setting sun’s last rays; 
In the sky its bright beams throwing, 
Making clouds seem all ablaze. 

On the rocks we stood there, gazing 
O’er the landscapes far and near, 
While our lips were ever praising 
Nature’s beauties, all so dear. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


183 


HOW TRYPHOSIA MANAGED. 

i 


It was over. The last funeral guest had driven slowly away, 
and Tryphosia Bennet was left alone in the old farmhouse. 
The crimson light of the western sky shone full in the girl’s 
face, as she stood in the open doorway, yet the pallor of her 
cheeks grew deeper by contrast. 

Suddenly the sun sank behind the hill-tops, and a dusky twi¬ 
light settled over the landscape. With an effort Tryphosia 
turned and faced the emptiness within. The old-fashioned 
sitting-room looked eerie in the dim light. A long shudder 
swept over the lonely girl; then sinking down upon the door¬ 
step, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. 

“Tryphosia!” called out a cheerful voice from the roadside. 
“You ain’t afraid, be ye?” 

Tryphosia started up and ran quickly toward the approach¬ 
ing figure. 

“For the land sakes! ef you ain’t jest about es nervous as 
a witch,” cried the woman, as she folded the trembling girl 
in her motherly arms. “I told Jotham I guessed likely es not 
ye w T ould be, an’ soon’s I’d done the dishes an’ set the bread 
to risin’ I came right along. Soon’s he gets through milkin’, 
Jotham’s cornin’ too, an’ we’re a goan’ to stay all night an’ 
talk things over.” 

“Oh! Mrs. Thompson, how good your are!” said Tryphosia, 
still clinging to the woman’s arm as they walked towards the 
house. 

“La! what are neighbors good for, I’d like to know, ef ye 
can’t call on ’em in time o’ trouble?” 

Soon firelight and lamplight had chased away the shadows, 
and the old farmhouse looked once more the abode of cheer¬ 
ful comfort. 

The death of her mother had left Tryphosia Bennet utterly 




184 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


alone in the world. A few stony acres, the weather-beaten 
farmhouse, an antiquated horse and cow, were the girl's in¬ 
heritance. For more than a generation the farm had belonged 
to the Bennet family, and in the long ago thrift and economy 
had made the place a fine one. Time, with its vicissitudes, 
however, had done its usual work; acre after acre had been 
turned into money, till but the worthless ones remained, while 
sun and storm had blackened the clapboards and loosened the 
shingles of the buildings. 

“I don’t suppose you know yet jest what ye will do, Try¬ 
phosia?” said Jotham Thompson, as he seated himself comfort¬ 
ably before the fire. 

Tryphosia shook her head silently. 

“Ef ye’re thinkin’ o’ sellin’ out, perhaps we could strike a 
bargain, seein’ your land jines on to mine,” continued he; 
“’taint worth much, an’ I can’t pay much, but sometimes a 
little money does more good than a lot o’ land that ain’t a- 
bringin’ in nothin’.” 

“You are very good, Mr. Thompson, but I don’t wish to 
sell,” answered Tryphosia, quietly. 

“Sho! now, ye ain’t a goin’ to live here all alone, be ye?” 

“I’ve sent for my Cousin Hannah and her husband to come 
and live with me for the present,” said Tryphosia. 

“What, she that married Joseph Pike, over to Ridgely? La! 
Jo Pike ain’t worth his salt to work, Tryphosia, an’ Hannah 
w r as sort o ’ peeked lookin ’. Got bronchitis, or somethin ’, ain’t 
she?” 

“Cousin Hannah has a bronchial trouble, I believe, and I 
thought the change might be of benefit to her,” answered Try¬ 
phosia, /simply. 

“ ’Tain’t that I want to meddle in your business, Tryphosia, 
you know that; but accordin’ to my idee, you’re makin’ a 
great mistake in askin’ Jo and Hannah Pike to live with you. 
Jo alius worked in a shop, an’ ain’t used to farmwork nor 
milkin’, anyhow. I swum, I don’t believe he can tell a potato 
from a punkin when it’s a growin’,” said Jotham, contemp¬ 
tuously. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


186 


“There, Jotham; now don't you go to gettin’ wrathy over 
what Jo Pike knows or don’t know. It’s likely that Tryphosia 
knows who she wants to live with her, anyhow,” spoke up 
Mrs. Thompson, with comfortable good-nature. 

“I know you mean well, Mr. Thompson,” said Tryphosia; 

‘ ‘ but mother told me to ask Cousin Hannah to come here until 
I had decided what was best for to do, so of course I did so.” 

“Well, es I said before, ’tain’t none of my business, any¬ 
how, an’ perhaps Jo’s wits air sharper’n they used to be. But 
what I was thinkin’ on mostly was the mortgage that Dr. 
Brown holds on the farm, an’ how ye was a goin’ to keep up 
the interest on it. Your mother told ye ’bout it, didn’t she?” 

“Yes, she told me. But when I spoke to Dr. Brown about 
it, he was very kind and I said I need not worry; that he should 
never trouble me with it. Of course, I knew he meant un¬ 
til I had made my plans for the future and could attend to it,” 
said Tryphosia, with dignity. 

Jotham Thompson’s lips drew together in a low whistle, 
while he muttered under his breath, “An’ Dr. Brown’s such a 
close-fisted man, too.” Suddenly a broad grin overspread his 
face. 

“Well, now, that’s ’mazin clever on him, sure,” said he with 
a sly look at the girl’s innocent face. “He must be mighty 
fond o’ ye to have said that. Who knows but you and he may 

-” He finished his sentence with a sound between a cough 

and a groan, as his wife’s foot pressed with no gentle force 
against his pet com. 

“Dr. Brown’s a mighty nice man, Tryphosia,” said Mrs. 
Thompson. “An’ don’t you go to frettin’ about that mort¬ 
gage.” 

It was a pale, anxious face that stared with wide-open eyes 
from beneath the patchwork coverlid of the great four-poster, 
far into the night. The problems of life seemed beyond Try¬ 
phosia ’s solving, as she strove to pierce the dark veil that hid 
the future from her gaze. Ah! how many times had she re¬ 
belled at this quiet, peaceful life, and longed for the noise and 
turmoil of the great city? Yet now, with the danger of its 





186 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


being torn from her grasp, how dear every stick and stone 
upon the old place had become. It was here that the dear 
mother had lived and loved her, and here all the memories of 
her happy childhood were clustered. No! she would never 
part with the dear old homestead—Never! 


“How on arth Tryphosia expects to manage things on this 
'ere place, the land only knows. It’s my opinion, though, Dr. 
Brown’s got his eye on the girl as well as the place. An’ she 
couldn’t do better’n take up with him. I’ve sort o’ expected 
he’d be lookin’ up a thirdly afore a great while,” said Jotham, 
as he settled himself in Tryphosia’s best feather bed. 

“There, Jotham Thompson,” cried his wife, indignantly, 
“don’t you go to puttin’ notions into Tryphosia’s head. The 
very idea o’ that poor lamb marryin’ that wolf in sheep’s 
clothin’, who’s old enough to be her grandfather, makes the 
cold chills creep up an’ down my backbone. Ye ought to be 
ashamed to even think on ’t. ” 

A loud snore was Jotham’s answer, and his worthy spouse 
soon followed his example. 

How it happened that Dr. Ephraim Brown held a mortgage 
that nearly covered the value of the old Bennet place, was a 
matter known only to himself, and it was a source of se¬ 
cret satisfaction to him daily. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, 
Mrs. Thompson had called him, which was not a misnomer, yet 
in his mvn opinion he wa^ the benefactor of nearly every family 
in town. Twice married, he was for the second time a widow¬ 
er, and childless; a sharp, shrewd, hard-natured man of sixty, 
who, while never refusing attendance upon the poor, he exacted 
from every property holder the equivalent of the money due, 
tiU he had grown rich in houses and lands. For years he had 
looked with covetous eyes, not only upon the Bennet home¬ 
stead, but upon Tryphosia as well, whom he had watched grow 
from babyhood into a beautiful childhood, and into a more 
beautiful womanhood. Now that she was homeless and alone, 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


187 


why should he not obey the impulse of his heart and win the 
girl for his wife, if he chose to do so, and thus rescue her from 
her lonely position? 

The sunshine of a lovely day shone through the windows of 
the garret in the Bennet farmhouse. Kneeling on the floor, 
beside a great oaken chest, was Tryphosia, intently examining 
its contents. A strong odor of camphor mingled with lavender 
arose from the folded garments. The chest was massive, and 
rich with carving, and on the inside of the lid was written 
the names of “Jonathan and Priscilla Holden,” Tryphosia’s 
great, great grandparents, who in the long ago had left the old 
world for the untried shores of the new, because true love was 
not allowed to have its way. Many thoughts came to Trypho¬ 
sia as she examined the contents of the chest, and the silent 
tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought of the future, 
which looked so dark. 

“Tryphosia!” called a voice, and Hannah Pike’s thin face 
was thrust into the room. 

“Great tribulation! ef you ain’t a sittin’ here on the floor 
a weepin’ salt tears, an’ Dr. Brown down in the best room a 
waitin ’ to see ye! ” said she, breathlessly. 

“What do you suppose he wants, Hannah?” said Tryphosia, 
springing up and wiping her eyes hastily. 

“Not bein’ a clairvoyant, I can’t exactly say,” answered 
Hannah, quaintly. “He acts terribly uneasy in his mind, 
though, an’s a trampin’ ’round the room like a king o’ the 
forest. ’ ’ 

With a strange sinking at her heart, Tryphosia walked into 
the old-fashioned parlor. 

“How do you do, Doctor?” said she, with quiet dignity, as 
they shook hands. “It was very kind of you to come and see 
me.” 

“Not at all, not at all,” answered the doctor, drawing his 
chair close to the shrinking girl. “You must know that I 
have a great interest in you, Tryphosia, and since your mother 
was taken away I have been greatly troubled in my mind 
about your living here all alone.” 






188 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“But I do not live alone, Doctor. Joe and Hannah Pike are 

with me,” answered Tryphosia quickly. 

"Yes, yes; I know. But what are their protection compared 
with having a husband to care for you, my dear?” said the 
doctor, with a glance that made the girl recoil as from a blow. 

“ I do not understand you, Dr. Brown. What do you mean ? ’ ’ 
said she coldly. 

"Well, Tryphosia, I’m a man of few words, and I may as 
well state my errand at once. I mean, my dear, that I want 
you to be my wife, ” said the doctor, as with a sudden move¬ 
ment he drew the girl toward him. 

With nervous strength, Tryphosia pushed him from her, her 

cheeks crimson with anger. 

"What you ask, Dr. Brown, is impossible, utterly impossi¬ 
ble,” she cried, indignantly. 

"Why impossible?” asked the doctor, his face hardening. 

"I do not care for you in that way. I—I could not,” stam¬ 
mered she. 

" ’Tis better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s 
slave, Tryphosia,” quoted the doctor; "but leaving sentiment 
out of the matter, are you not a litle foolish to refuse the pro¬ 
tection of any good man, when you are so alone and, as one 
might say, homeless?” 

"I do not think so, Dr. Brown; I have the protection of 
both my cousin and her husband, and the shelter of my own 
house,” answered Tryphosia, bravely meeting the sneer in the 
doctor’s eyes. "I believe the interest on the mortgage is due 
the twelfth of next month. If you will call on that day, I will 
see that the money is ready. Good-morning, Dr. Brown.” And 
with gentle dignity, Tryphosia Bennet walked slowly from the 
room. 

* * * * 

‘ i Hannah! oh, Hannah! what ever are we going to do ? ” 
cried the poor girl, whose courage seemed to forsake her the 
moment she was out of the doctor’s sight. 

"Great tribulation! Tryphosia, how you do scare one, a 
tearin’ ’round! An’ what’s the doctor gone off for lookin’ as 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


189 


sour es if he’d swallowed one of his own pills?” said Hannah, 
dropping her spectacles into the dishwater as Tryphosia grasp¬ 
ed her arm excitedly. 

“It’s the mortgage, Hannah, that Dr. Brown holds on the 
place. What shall I do to earn some money?” 

“The graspin’ old critter, to come here a pesterin’ a poor, 
motherless girl! The Lord’s judgment be on him!” said Han¬ 
nah, indignantly. 

“But, Hannah, I must raise the money some way very soon,” 
answered Tryphosia, earnestly. 

“Ef ’twas only fair time, you might sell doughnuts,” said 
Hannah, with sudden inspiration. “Lucinda Curtis earned 
ten dollars fair week a sellin ’ em; they were awful fatty, too, ’ ’ 
and Hannah sniffed contemptuously. 

“But I must have twenty-five dollars before the twelfth of 
next month,” continued Tryphosia, desperately. 

“Why don’t you try an’ sell some o’ that old truck that’s 
a clutterin’ up the garret since the year one?” said Hannah, 
after a little. “ ’Tain’t likely anyone ’round these parts would 
want it, but city folks are ‘ mazin’ fond o’ antique furniture, 
an’ goodness knows there’s some things there that must ’a’ 
come over in the ark. Seems to me I saw somethin’ in one o’ 
those Boston papers, sayin’ there was quite a demand for sich 
like!” continued she, picking up a paper and scanning its 
columns eagerly. “Why, here’s the very thing, Tryphosia!” 
and she read the following notice: 

“‘WANTED!—Antique furniture of every description. Good prices 
paid for the genuine article. Address: BLANK & CO., Washington 
Street.’ ” 

“I do believe, Hannah, we’ve hit on the right thing at 
last!” cried Tryphosia, her face brightening, “for I have some 
very valuable old pieces that were grandma’s, and though it 
will be hard to part with them, I would better sacrifice them 
than to lose my home.” 

“Sakes alive, yes, child! An! there’ll be more room for cat¬ 
nip an’ spearmint, too,” answered Hannah. “An’ ef I was 
you, I’d jest go an’ see them folks myself.” 



190 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


‘‘I believe I will, Hannah,” answered Tryphosia, thought¬ 
fully. 

It was nearly two weeks later that there appeared in the 
papers the following notice: 

“On the afternoon of Saturday, Nov. 12th., there will be an exhibi¬ 
tion and sale of antique furniture at the Bennet farmhouse, in the 
Town of A-, County of B-.” 

This announcement aroused much curiosity on the part of 
the country folk far and near, but the persons especially con¬ 
cerned kept their own counsel. 

When the day of the sale arrived the blazing logs in the 
great fireplace mingled their light with the sunshine, which 
lay in golden patches on the floor of the long, low room. Be¬ 
fore one of the diamond-paned windows Tryphosia had placed 
her great grandmother’s spinning wheel, and standing before 
it was what appeared to be the ghost of that venerable person 
—a slight, girlish figure dressed in black satin, with a quilted 
petticoat, over which was a bunched-up gown of flowered silk. 
A dainty white kerchief was folded across her bosom, leaving 
the slender throat bare. The coil of golden hair was held in 
place by a high shell comb, and quaint little high-heeled shoes, 
with silver buckles, finished this charming costume. 

“Great tribulation! Tryphosia, ef you don’t look jest like 
your own grandmother!” cried Hannah, approvingly, as her 
eyes fell admiringly upon the apparition. 

‘‘ Mrs. Priscilla Holden, at your service ! ’ ’ said Tryphosia 
gaily, adding, “I wonder if I could manage this wheel?” 

'‘La, yes! it’s easy enough if you only know how,” answered 
Hannah, placing her foot on the treadle and starting the 
wheel in motion. 

“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed the voice of a man. “I 
trust I am not intruding, but I understand that there is to be 
a sale of antiques here to-day.” 

“Great tribulation! how did you get in?” cried Hannah, 
whirling about and facing the intruder, a fine-looking young 
fellow, with the air of a city-bred man about him. 






BREATH OF THE HILLS 


191 


“I knocked twice, and as there was no response I ventured 
to walk in, ’ ’ said he, smiling. Then handing a card to Trypho- 
sia, he added, “My name is Jerome Holden, and I represent 
the firm of Blank & Co., of Boston.” 

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Holden,” said Tryphosia, 
glancing quickly from the card to the young man’s comely 
face, “and I hope you will be pleased with our exhibit.” 

“I think it is the most wonderful room I was ever in. It is 
simply charming!” answered the young man, enthusiastically, 
glancing about him. Then, as his eyes rested upon the girlish 
figure, he added, with a smile: “Your quaint costume makes 
the picture complete.” 

‘ * It belonged to my great, great grandmother, and to gratify 
a whim I am wearing it to-day,” answered Tryphosia, blush¬ 
ing at the young man’s evident admiration. “I have a very 
handsome costume which once belonged to great, great grand¬ 
father, also; though of course I would not part with either of 
them, not for the world, ’ ’ she added fervently. 

A merry look crept into the young man’s eyes, but her in¬ 
nocent face held hifn silent. 

In a short time the room began to fill, many of the people 
being old friends and neighbors, who, with a few strangers, 
were anxious to secure curiosities of ancient days. Tryphosia 
moved about with smiles and greetings for all, while Hannah 
served tea from ancient blue teacups. 

“What’s Tryphosia a drivin’ at, anyhow?” muttered Jotham 
Thompson, as he stood in one corner drinking a cup of tea. 
“She won’t get ten dollars for the whole on ’t.” 

“Oh, yes! I will. I’ve already sold the old clock for seven¬ 
ty-five dollars, the chest of drawers for fifty, and I have just 
had an offer of ninety dollars for that set of blue china,” 
whispered the girl’s voice in his ear, as she paused a moment 
behind the old man. “And you see I have a number of valu¬ 
able pieces to dispose of yet.” 

“Ge whiz! you air in luck, Tryphosia,” said he, as the 
smiling girl moved swiftly away. 



192 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


*‘Darned smart critter, that girl, anyhow!” muttered he, ad- 
miringly. “Don’t blame the doctor for tryin’ to get her. 
Swum ef I do. * ’ 

As though the mention of his name had called forth his per¬ 
son, the door suddenly opened and Dr. Brown walked into the 
room. Tryphosia’s lips were less smiling, though her eyes met 

his bravely as she greeted him. 

‘ 4 Good afternoon, Doctor. I was expecting you,” said she 
quietly, as she placed a roll of bills in his hand. Hannah, 

give the doctor a cup of tea.” 

‘ 4 Having a party, Tryphosia?” said he, with a frown, de¬ 
clining the beverage Hannah offered. 

“Not exactly, Doctor. I am having an exhibit of some an¬ 
tiques, some of which I am offering for sale,” answered she, 
simply. 

The doctor’s face grew purple with rage. 

“A sale, eh! We’ll see about it!” cried he fiercely; “for not 
one article leaves this house without my consent.” 

The doctor’s voice reached every corner of the room, and a 
breathless silence fell upon the astonished people. Jerome 
Holden moved quickly to where Tryphosia stood. Her face 
was as pale as death, yet she faced the man bravely. 

“How dare you speak to me in this manner, Dr. Brown?” 
said she, indignantly. “And by what right do you stop my 
sale ? ” 

“By tlje best right in the world. The right of the owner,” 
said the doctor, triumphantly, taking a paper from his pocket 
and holding it so all could see. 

“This note covers the entire value of this house and all it 
contains/ The note falls due to-day. As Miss Bennet cannot 
meet it, I claim the property.” 

“If Miss Bennet will allow me, I will gladly pay the amount 
due,” said Jerome, quickly stepping forward. 

“An’ I’ll do the same, by thunder! I ain’t agoin’ to see 
Tryphosia turned out o’ house an’ home in this fashion. So 
you just give me that note, Doctor,” cried Jotham Thompson, 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


193 ' 


thrusting a roll of bills in the doctor’s face. Tryphosia mo¬ 
tioned them back, though she thanked them both with a grate¬ 
ful glance. 

“Dr. Brown, yon claim more than yon can prove yonr right 
to,” said she, quietly drawing a folded paper from the little 
silk bag that hnng by her side. “This paper is a certificate 
which I have obtained from the Register of Deeds at the 
Connty Conrt Honse, and which places the date of the mort¬ 
gage one year later.” 

The color faded slowly from the doctor’s face, and his burly 
figure seemed to shrink in size before the girl’s honest gaze. 
His eyes shifted and fell beneath it, and without a word he 
turned and left the house. 

It was a poor little ghost of her great grandmother that lay 
huddled in a heap on the old settee in the late twilight. A 
storm of sobs shook her, and her heart ached with many con¬ 
flicting emotions. What a poor triumph it had been after all! 
and oh! how hard it was won. How terrible had been the 
mortification of it, and before strangers, too. 

Suddenly a voice from out the shadows said gently: 

“Miss Bennet!” and Tryphosia sprang quickly to her feet. 

“I thought you were gone, Mr. Holden,” said she with an 
effort. 

“I could not go without speaking with you once more. May 
I not stay a little longer?” 

“Of course; and I will have Hannah bring a light,” an¬ 
swered Tryphosia. 

“Please do not, Miss Bennet, the firelight is so pleasant.”, 
And Tryphosia sank back on the settee, grateful for the dusk 
that hid her tear-stained cheeks. 

“I wanted to ask you what your grandmother’s name was, 
or rather your great grandmother’s,” said the young man, as 
he seated himself before the fire. “I have been looking up the 
genealogy of my own family, and I think I can tell you some¬ 
thing that will surprise you.” 




194 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Great grandmother’s name was Priscilla Holden. Why, 
Holden is your name, too, isn’t it?” cried Tryphosia, a sudden 
thought coming to her. 

“Yes, and Priscilla Holden was my great grandmother’s 
name; and what is more, they were one and the same person, ’ ’ 
said Jerome, smiling. 

“Then we are,” began Tryphosia, “we are-” 

“Cousins!” finished the young man, triumphantly, “even 
though some distance removed. And may I not claim the pri¬ 
vilege of our relationship and come and see you sometimes?” 

The darkness hid the flush that came into the girl’s face, and 
she smiled as she said softly: 

“I shall be very glad to see you any time, Cousin Jerome.” 

In the days that followed, Jerome Holden availed himself 
often of this privilege, and life took on a new interest for the 
lonely girl. Long before the note on the mortgage was due, 
the cousins had become lovers, and Jerome had assumed the 
responsibility of settling the doctor’s claim. 

“Because,” said he, when Tryphosia demurred, “it was the 
home of my ancestors as well as yours, and it is my right. ’ ’ 

* # • * 

Another scene, and this story is finished. It is Tryphosia’s 
wedding day. Once more firelight and sunlight mingle to¬ 
gether to illumine the quaint old room. Once more there is 
a gathering there, but this time all are friends, who come with 
smiles and pleasant greetings. Tryphosia stands in their midst, 
dressed in that dainty costume of a hundred years ago, and 
beside her stands Jerome, clad in that other suit so long hidden 
in the old chest. 

As with clasped hands they listen to the words that make 
them one, the air seems filled with the invisible presence of 
those of the long ago; and that love which had been faithful 
through all time descended upon them and dwelt in their 
hearts. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


195 


HOW ALYIRA WENT TO THE CIRCUS. 


“The biggest show on ’arth is a comm’ to Pineville!” ex¬ 
claimed Silas Holbrook, walking into the farmhouse kitchen 
with his hands filled with gaudy show bills. 

“Well, suppos’n ’tis,” answered Alvira shortly, without 
looking up from the sock she was darning. “You haint no call 
to get excited over it es I know of. ” 

“La! Alvira, how you do snap a feller up,” said Silas, fum¬ 
bling for his glasses and scanning eagerly the list of attrac¬ 
tions set forth upon the bills, “didn’t know but you might 
like to take a squint at it yourself, seein’ ye haint been no¬ 
where this Summer.” 

Alvira paused with uplifted needle, and glanced sternly at 
her husband’s flushed face. 

“Silas Holbrook, air you a deacon o’ the church, or air you 
not?” questioned she. 

“That don’t make no difference, Alvira, not a mite; every 
body goes to the circus nowadays, even the minister,” an¬ 
swered Silas coolly. 

“Well, you an’ I ’ll stay at home an’ set ’em a good ex¬ 
ample,” answered Alvira firmly. “We hav’n’t any money to 
fool away goin’ to the circus.” 

“All right, Alvira, we won’t have no quarrel over it, ef you 
don’t want to go, that settles it,” answered the peace-loving 
Silas, throwing down the gay colored bills with a little sigh. 
“I’m goin’ down to the south meadow to turn over the hay,” 
he added, as he walked out into the summer sunshine. 

Left alone, Alvira’s eyes seemed drawn unconsciously to¬ 
wards the circus bills. For a little time she resisted the temp¬ 
tation, then with an impatient sniff, no doubt at her own weak¬ 
ness, she picked them up and was soon lost to all save the 
wonderful pictures, and the marvellous feats of circus people. 





196 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


< 1 Good morning, Alvira! I see you are as fascinated over 
those wonderful show bills, as the rest of us. Of course you 
are going to the circus.” 

Alvira sprang to her feet with a scream. 

“Why Lucinda Peters! how you did scare me!” said she, 
going to the open door where stood a plump little woman in 
a bicycle costume, leaning against her wheel. “I suppose I 
was sort o’ interested readin’ about the big show, but I haint 
no idea of goin’ to it, just the same.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Lucinda. “A 
party of us ladies are going on our wheels. I wish you rode 
a wheel.” 

“So do I, Lucinda. That’s jest the one thing I’ve been a 
hankerin’ after, is to ride a bicycle. But I suppose I’m too 
old and heafty,” answered Alvira, looking longingly at Lucin¬ 
da’s up-to-date wheel. 

“Not a bit of it” cried Lucinda with a gay laugh. “It 
would do you lots of good, Alvira, and I’ll tell you what I’ll 
do. I will teach you to ride on my wheel, then after you’ve 
learned you can hire a wheel and go to the circus with us.” 

“Sakes alive, Lucinda, I don’t care anything about the cir¬ 
cus, but I d like ’mazin’ well to learn to ride a bicycle, only 
Silas would’nt like it, I’m afraid”, said Alvira, flushed with 
pleasure at the thought. 

“Don’t tell him until you can ride and then he’ll think it’s 
all right, that’s the way with all the men. Now you come 
down to our place this afternoon, and I’ll give you your first 
lesson,” urged Lucinda, as with a laughing nod of her head, 
she sprang upon her wheel and sped away, followed by Al¬ 
vira’s admiring eyes. 

The rest of the forenoon Alvira was a prey to conflicting 
emotions. This opportunity of learning to ride a bicycle was 
what she had long yearned for, and after some mental struggle 
she decided to accept Lucinda’s offer. Not that she had the 
slightest idea of going to the circus, should she conquer the 
machine during the following three weeks before the coming 
of the big show. Oh, no! not she! But to be able to skim 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


197 


over the smooth country roads at her will, was a delightful 
thought. Her dinner work out of the way, and Silas safe in 
the south pasture raking hay, Alvira hastened across the fields, 
a short cut, to the home of her friend, Lucinda Peters. 

As the days passed onward, Silas said no more about going 
to the circus, though his mind was fully made up to take in 
this “biggest show on ’arth”, in spite of Alvira’s verdict. 

“’Taint no use o’ sayin’ anythin’ more about it, cause I’ll 
have to go to Pineville that day anyhow, with some garden 
truck, an’ I can sort o’ slip into the show on’ see the fun jest 
as easy ’s not,” muttered Silas, in a conversation with his 
conscience, as he decided upon this bit of stolen pleasure. 

As for Alvira, no pangs of conscience troubled her or dis¬ 
turbed the pleasure of her bicycle lessons, and every bit of 
spare time, when Silas was out of the way, was spent in prac¬ 
ticing upon the wheel. After the first few lessons, she had sent 
by Lucinda and bought a second-hand wheel, which she kept 
hidden in the attic when not in use. 

“Dear me, Alvira, how rheumaticy you must be a gettin, ’’ 
said he, noticing her frequent use of arnica and witch-hazel. 

“Well, suppos’n I be, I guess I’ll get over it,” answered 
Alvira, a little crossly. 

As circus day drew near, Lucinda had at last aroused in 
Alvira a desire to go with the bicycle party, and her success 
in mastering the wheel so elated her that she finally consented 
to go, one of them. But how to avoid Silas? Having his own 
little plans afoot, he unconsciously helped her out. 

“I’m a goin’ out peddling garden truck,” said he, as the 
day dawned clear and sunny. 

“Where to. Silas? Down to Pineville?” asked Alvira, a 
little anxiously. 

“Well, I may fetch up there sometime during the day,” an¬ 
swered Silas evasively, “I’ve quite a number o’ customers 
along the way, you know.” 

“Yes,” said Alvira, thoughtfully, watching him as he drove 
slowly away. 



198 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


A little later, Alvira mounted her bicycle and started for 
the place where the ladies were to meet. 

Now Alvira, on the wheel, was an altogether different Alvi¬ 
ra from the one Silas knew. In spite of her flesh, she sat 
lightly and easily, perfectly erect, her hands resting lightly 
upon the handle bars, her feet moving easily up and down, as 
though walking, her breath coming and going naturally, as 
she held a bit of gum between her teeth. Her short gray skirt 
and w T hite shirtwaist and small close cap of gray cloth, be¬ 
neath w r hich her dark hair with its streaks of white was 
smoothly brushed, was vastly becoming. In fact, Alvira had 
taken to the wheel as a duck to the water, and seemed per¬ 
fectly at home as she spun along the hoad. In her efforts to 
avoid a meeting with Silas, she took a round-a-bout way, 
branching off from the main road in several places, so it was 
quite a little past the stated hour that she arrived at the place 
of meeting. 

To her surprise, there was no one there, and thinking she 
was too early instead of too late, Alvira stepped from her 
wheel and sat down in a shady spot to await the coming of 
the party. The time slipped by and still no sign of her 
friends, and once more mounting her wheel, Alvira determined 
to go in search of them. 

In all her life, it seemed to Alvira, she had never felt so 
care-free and happy. Gliding swiftly along the shady country 
road, made fragrant with the breath of pine woods, and sweet¬ 
smelling wild flowers, she almost forgot her destination, till 
she found herself in the crowded village street. Fearing re¬ 
cognition, she rode swiftly along to the circus grounds, secured 
a ticket, and passed in through the big gate. 

A medley of sights and sounds greeted her bewildered eyes, 
and for a few moments she stood leaning upon her wheel and 
gazed about her. There was the huge mammoth tent, and the 
usual number of smaller ones, the drawing cards set forth in 
gay colored pictures outside. By the sounds of music, shouts 
of laughter and clapping of hands that issued from the big 
tent, Alvira concluded the show had begun. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


199 


“Dear me, I never can find Lucinda an’ the rest inside that 
tent, I know, ’ ’ she muttered to herself, scarcely knowing what 
to do next. 

Suddenly, from one of the smaller tents, there came a num¬ 
ber of people, men and women in bicycle costume, each with 
a wheel. Alvira’s face lighted up as she pushed her ways to¬ 
wards them. 

“There’s Lucinda now, thank goodness,” she cried aloud. 

Obstructed by the crowd, the last of the bicyclists was just 
vanishing inside the tent when Alvira followed close behind. 
Inside, each mounted a wheel and rode swiftly into a big ring, 
the one whom she supposed was Lucinda being one of the 
first. Determined to catch up with her at all costs, Alvira 
jumped up on her wheel and followed on. Inside the ring they 
quickly formed a line, a bell rang, and away they all flew like 
the wind. With her eyes fixed on Lucinda, Alvira peddled 
away with all her might, yet still she kept far ahead. Round 
and round the ring they went, the band playing loudly, the 
people shrieking and clapping hands. 

“Look at the fat one! I’ll bet on the fat one!” shouted a 
rough boy in the audience, and the people laughed and 
screamed the louder. 

Gathering her strength for a final speed, Alvira dashed for¬ 
ward and with a mighty effort she rushed passed the sup¬ 
posed Lucinda Peters. A bell sounded, a great shout arose 
from the people, and a man thrust a flag into Alvira’s hand 
as she stepped from her wheel. Her head was in whirl, her 
heart beat heavily, as she gazed about that sea of strange 
faces. The other riders were moving quickly from the ring, 
and for the first time, Alvira realized that they were all 
strangers to her. 

A sudden trembling seized her, a sort of wild horror of her 
situation took from her the last bit of strength, and her shak¬ 
ing limbs refused their support. 

“Look out there! Out of the way!” shouted a voice in her 
ear as she staggered along. Too late. The hoof of a horse 




200 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


struck her down, a great wheel passed over her bicycle, crush¬ 
ing it to atoms, and the darkness of night fell upon Alvira. 

From the upper tier of seats an old farmer sprang up as he 
saw her fall, and elbowing his way downward he pushed his 
way to her side. Waving back all offers of help, he lifted the 
unconscious woman, partly in his arms, he dragged her out 
into the open air, saying, 

“This lady is my wife, gentlemen, an’ I’ll take care on her.” 

Silas’ face was white as chalk, his eyes wild and staring, 
when Alvira returned to consciousness and saw him bending 
over her. 

“Is it you, Silas, oh! how glad I am!” cried she, grasping 
his hand as if she would never ease her hold. 

“Yes, Alvira, it’s me all right, but blamed if I’m sure it’s 
you, though,” answered Silas, looking her over curiously. 
“An’ where in time did you larn to ride a bicycle?” 

“Take me home, Silas, an’ I’ll tell you all about it,” said 
his wife, rising painfully to her feet and brushing the dirt 
from her clothes. “I guess I can get to the wagon if it’s 
pretty handy, I suppose my wheel is completely ruined, any¬ 
way, so let it stay where ’tis, ” added she, as she limped along 
beside her husband. 

Not until they were well started on their homewnrd ride 
did Silas speak again, but at last his curiosity could be kept 
back no longer. 

“I vow, Alvira, ef you aint the smartest woman I know on,” 
he burst out admiringly. “Who’d ever suppose you’d win a 
bicycle race in a circus.” 

“I didn’t know I was a racin, Silas, as true as I live, I 
didn’t,” answered Alvira meekly, “I was just a tryin’ to ketch 
up with that first woman, who I thought was Lucinda Peters.” 

“Well, ye did, Alvira, an’ beat her all to nothin’. Why, 

when the man gin ye that flag I jest hollered louder than any 
boy around me.” 

“But you didn’t know it was me, Silas, did you?” said Al¬ 
vira. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


201 


“Well, I kin o’ thought it was, ’n yet I couldn’t believe my 
own eyes, till that horse hit you. Then somethin’ told me 
’twas you sure.” 

Alvira shuddered as she moved a little closer to his side, 
and Silas glanced at her with a queer expression on his 
wrinkled face. 

“Came in sort o’ handy havin’ me down there jest in the 
nick o’ time, didn’t it, Alvira?” 

* ‘ I never was so thankful for anything in all my life! ’ ’ said 
Alvira, fervently. “But I really didn’t care about goin’ to 
the circus, an’ it was all Lucinda’s doin’s that I went,” and 
Alvira told Silas the whole story of the bicycle lessons. 

Silas listened thoughtfully, and rode some distance before 
answering. 

“Well, Alvira, we’ve both found out how deceitful is the 
human heart, an’ how quickly tribulation follows upon wrong 
doin’. But, atter all ’s said an’ done, you did jest ride that 
wheel splendid, an’ I’m goin’ to buy you a bran’ new bicycle 
the first chance I get.” 

And he did. 


MESSAGES OF LOVE. 


Spirits of loved ones hovering near, 
Whispering in accents tender and clear, 
Comforting me when weary and sad, 

Easing my burdens and making me glad. 

Filling my heart with peace and rest, 
Pointing the way that for me is best, 
Telling of victories for me to win, 

Leading me up from paths of sin. 

Wiping away from my eyes the tears, 

That start when I think of vanishing years, 
Murmuring songs of joys to come, 

When at last I reach my Heavenly home. 






202 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


TILDY ANN’S MINCE PIES. 


“There wa’n’t a mite o’ meat in ’em!” said Mrs. Josiah 
Holden, with a contemptuous sniff. “An’ for my part I call 
it downright deceitful in Tildy Ann Perkins, to pass ’em off 
for genuine meat pies.” 

“Why, Mis’ Holden! No one in the world would ever 
dream o’ such a thing; for they were about the tastyest pies 
I ever put in my mouth,” answered Hannah Peabody, looking 
up in surprise, from the vest she was making for Josiah. 

“Oh, yes, they were tasty enough, I know, an’ calculated 
to deceive one as to what was in ’em. But I happen to know 
that they were made after that receipt for mock mince pies, 
that I gave Tildy Ann, a year ago, an’ cracker crumbs are 
used instead o’ meat. Now as long as the prize was offered 
for the best mince pies, an’ all the rest o’ the women o’ the 
society made ’em o’ meat an’ suet, an’ all the good things we 
could crowd into ’em, it seems sort o’ queer an’ unfair that 
Tildy Ann’s mock mince pies should have won the quilt.” 

Mrs. Holden bit off her thread with a snap, and rocked her¬ 
self back in her wooden rocker a little excitedly, but Hannah 
sewed on quietly a few moments before she spoke. 

“Yes, it does seem a little odd, that is a fact,” said she at 
last. “But I’ve noticed that most folks make their pies so 
rich it spoils the flavor. Now Tildy Ann’s were so delicate in 
taste, an’ the crust was so light they’d fairly melt in your 
mouth. An’ as long as no one knew the difference I don’t 
know why she hasn’t won the quilt fairly enough.” 

“That’s just as you’ve a mind to think, Hannah, an’ I don’t 
agree with you,” answered Mrs. Holden quickly. “An’ I’m 
a-goin’ to tell the rest o’ the society what I know about them 
pies. Then if they all agree with me, we’ll just go to Tildy 
Ann Perkins an’ tell her that as long as she had used that 
receipt, she had not won the quilt honest, and that we’d de¬ 
cided to try again at the next supper.” 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


203 


Hannah dropped her sewing in her lap, and her dark eyes 
flashed indignantly, as she glanced at her neighbor through 
her glasses. 

“Do you mean to say, Mis’ Holden, you’d take that quilt 
away from Tildy Ann ? ’ ’ asked she. 

“Yes, I would, Hannah, for accordin’ to my idee, it don’t 
belong to her any more ’n it does to me. Dear me, I never 
once thought but o’ course I’d get it, an’ I did the most work 
on it o’ any one. Then the center piece is made o’ some o’ 
grandma Holden’s yellow satin petticoat, I’d saved ever since 
I was a girl, an’ Marie Jane drew out that lovely picture o’ 
the church, an’ it was the best thing she’d ever done, so natu¬ 
ral. I wouldn’t let any one but myself work on it, an’ I spent 
hours over it. An’ to think o’ its bein’ hid up in Tildy Ann 
Perkins’s shabby little bedroom.’’ 

Tears of envy and vexation sprang to the woman’s eyes, as 
her tongue fairly flew over the words that dropped from her 
lips, and the little tailoress watched her in silence. 

“Oh! you needn’t sit lookin’ at me, so scornful like, Hannah 
Peabody,” cried the angry woman, as their eyes met. “Don’t 
I know that I’m makin’ an exhibition o’ myself, an’ showin’ 
out envy an’ malice an’ all uncharitableness, an’ aint I got 
good cause? I only want fair dealin’, an’ I say again that 
Tildy Ann Perkins’s mock mince pies hadn’t no business to 
win the quilt.” 

Hannah Peabody rose quietly and folding up her work began 
to prepare for her homeward walk. 

The afternoon sun had vanished in the western sky, and 
early shadows had darkened the farmhouse kitchen. Mrs. 
Holden’s substantial form, as it swayed to and fro in her 
wooden rocker, was the only sound that broke the silence for 
a short time. 

“Mis’ Holden,” said she, “do you know if Tildy Ann has 
got her pension yet?” 

“No, I don’t,” snapped the woman, still rocking swiftly. 

“Has she had any carpets to weave this winter?” asked 
Hannah. 




204 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“I’m sure I don’t know that, either,” said Mrs. Holden, “I 
sent my rags to the mill.” 

“But that is the only way Tildy Ann has to earn money,” 
said Hannah. “An’ I’m afraid she is pretty poor, Mis’ Hol¬ 
den. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I don’t call any one poor that owns their own house,” 
answered she coldly, “an’ I guess Tildy Ann Perkins is as well 
off as most of us.” 

Hannah’s eyes flashed. 

“You know better than that, Mis’ Holden, an’ so do I,” 
said she. “An’ if Tildy Ann has got a house o’ her own she 
can’t eat it.” 

“Nobody wants her to,” answered the other, quickly. 

Hannah opened the door and stepped out into the gathering 
twilight. 

“Well, good-night, Mis’ Holden,” said she, struggling with 
the angry retort that rose to her lips. 

“Good night, Hannah,” and the door closed between them. 

As Hannah walked briskly along the country road, her 
thoughts flew backward over the events of the past week. A 
church fair had been held by the women of the little parish, 
at which the quilt, that Mrs. Holden seemed to covet so great¬ 
ly, had played an important part. Nearly every woman had 
had a share in furnishing the material for it, and in its making. 
In the first place it had been used as a snare to gather in sil¬ 
ver coins, by guessing the number of pieces of which it was 
composed. As no one came anywhere near the correct answer, 
it was decided to give it to the woman who should furnish, at 
the supper given the last night of the fair, the best mince pies. 
To the surprise of all, and the chagrin of not a few, Tildy Ann 
Perkins won the prize. Prom the minister, down to the young¬ 
est Sunday-school scholar, the decision was unanimous, and the 
half dozen pies that Tildy Ann had scattered among the tables 
vanished like dew before the sun. 

Tildy Ann Perkins was the lonely widow of a veteran of 
the war of the rebellion. She lived in a cottage house, known 
for miles around as “the little yallar,” so named because of 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


205 


its original vivid color of yellow paint, which, however, the 
storms of many seasons had nearly obliterated. Save for the 
cottage, and its small garden plot, the widow Perkins was pen¬ 
niless, and her only income was derived from what she could 
earn by weaving rag carpets for the country people round 
about. For several years she had been trying to obtain a 
widow’s pension in return for her husband’s service in the 
great struggle, but for some unknown reason it had thus far 
failed to reach her. 

Hannah Peabody’s homeward walk lay past the “little 
yallar,” and a sudden impulse made her pause and knock at 
the door. It was a cold night in early spring, and the sharp 
air made Hannah shiver even through her warm wraps. A 
short, dry cough greeted her as the door opened, and a wo¬ 
man’s pale face peered at her through the gathering gloom. 

“Why, Tildy Ann! you look as white as a ghost! You aint 
sick, be ye?” exclaimed she, stepping quickly inside and clos¬ 
ing the door. 

“Oh, no, Hannah, only jest a bit run down, cornin’ spring,” 
answered Tildy Ann, in a low soft voice that sounded musical 
beside Hannah’s shrill tones. “It’s cold, aint it?” 

“Well, I should say it was, Tildy Ann, an’ goodness! ye 
haint got half a fire either,” and she seized a stick of wood 
from the small woodbox and threw it beside the half-burned 
log in the fireplace. 

Tildy Ann sprang forward and drew it smoking from the 
embers. Then with a poker she stirred the log to a brighter 
glow. With a little laugh that ended in a cough she said, 
quietly: 

“You see, Hannah, I can’t afford to burn but one stick at a 
time jest now, for I’m a-tryin’ to make my wood hold out till 
I get my pension. Seems to me it ought to come pretty soon, 
now, don’t you think so, Hannah?” the soft voice grew eager 
with her words. 

“Land! I should think it had!” said Hannah. “It’s been 
on the way long enough. ’ ’ 

* * Oh, well, I knew it would take some time, there is so much 





206 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


red tape about these things an’ I shall be only too thankful to 
get it at all. But, Hannah, wasn’t it nice that 1 won the quilt 
at the fair? Why, when they spoke o’ givin’ it to the one 
who made the best mince-pies, I thought I could not even try, 
for, you see, Hannah, I hav’n’t had a bit o’ meat in the house 
all winter. Then I happened to think o’ that receipt Mis’ 
Holden gave me, an’ I jest made ’em by that. Well, to see 
the way every one eat ’em I guess no one cared if there wa ’n’t 
no meat in ’em. The minister ate two pieces, an’, do you 
know, Josiah Holden came to me with his mouth full an’ a 
big piece in his hand, an’ he says to me, ‘Well, Tildy Ann, Mis’ 
Holden thinks she can beat the world on mince pies. But ac¬ 
cordin’ to my idee, she crowds too much suet an’ spice into 
’em, an’ these ere o’ yourn beat ’em all to nothin’.’ I did 
have to laugh, Hannah, I couldn’t help it. Another thing 
that makes me glad to have the quilt is that when we was a- 
makin’ it I couldn’t seem to find a piece o’ silk good enough 
for a square till I thought o ’ the blue silk handkerchief I gave 
to my husband when he went to war. It went all through 
with him, an’ it looks as bright now as ever. Well, I made 
my square for the quilt out o’ that, an’ worked it all over 
with little white stars an’ put John’s initials in one corner. 
I didn’t tell anyone what ’t was made of, ’cause I’d saved it 
so many years, an’ it was sort o’ hard to give it up, for then 
I never dreamed it would come back to me.” Tildy Ann 
laughed happily as she paused. “It’s been so cold I’ve moved 
my bed out here an’ the quilt shows off in great style, Han¬ 
nah, an’ I’d like to light up an’ let you see for yourself, but 
to tell the truth, I hav’n’t a candle in the house. So when 
I’ve burned my allowance o’ wood, I jest go to bed, an’ I tell 
you what, Haimah, I’ve slept lots warmer since I had the 
quilt. ’ ’ 

Many thoughts buzzed through Hannah’s active brain, as she 
listened to Tildy Ann’s low-voiced talk, yet an unusual re¬ 
serve held her silent. 

“I don’t mind telling you, Hannah, though I wouldn’t like 
to say it to every one, that this winter has been the most try- 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


207 


ing of any I have known, an’ my faith in the Lord’s promises 
have been tested tq the uttermost,” continued Tildy Ann, her 
gentle voice trembling a little. “But when I feel the worst I 
just say to myself, ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ 
an’ then my faith sort o’ comes back, an’ I believe that the 
Lord will help me yet.” 

“Yes, Tildy Ann, He surely will,” said Hannah, in softened 
tones, as she once more stepped out into the night. 

For the next few days a heavy rainstorm made the roads so 
impassable that Hannah Peabody was forced to remain quietly 
at home, yet her anxious thoughts dwelt constantly with the 
inmate of the “little yallar.” A sudden cold kept her house¬ 
bound a few days more, when Mrs. Holden sent her husband 
with the horse and buggy to bring her back with him to finish 
his vest. As she stepped into the spare room to lay aside her 
outer garments the first thing that met her eyes was the prize 
quilt, spread out in all its importance on the best bed. 

If a bona fide ghost had risen up before her, Hannah could 
not have felt a colder chill of horror and dismay. For an 
instant she gazed at it in stunned silence, then whirling about 
she faced the woman in the next room. 

“Mis’ Holden,” cried she, her voice trembling with indigna¬ 
tion, “where did you get that quilt?” 

A dull red spread over the woman’s heavy face, yet her 
eyes met Hannah’s defiantly. 

“I told you, Hannah, what I intended to do, and I’ve done 
it, an’ the quilt’s mine, for the rest all said my pies was the 
best anyhow,” said she. 

“An’ what did Tildy Ann say when you went after it?” 
asked Hannah, her heart beating painfully as she thought of 
that poor woman’s distress. 

“Oh! she looked scared to pieces,” said Mrs. Holden con¬ 
temptuously, “an’ said she’d no idee o’ bein’ deceitful about 
the pies, an’ that she didn’t know as mince pies meant always 
meat pies. An’ then she took the quilt off the bed an’ folded 
it up an’ give it to me without another word.” 

Hannah turned and walked swiftly toward the door. 




208 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Where be you a-goin’, Hannah?” said Mrs. Holden, watch¬ 
ing her anxiously.. But the slam of the heavy door was her 
only answer. 

Swiftly Hannah’s feet sped over the muddy road toward 
the “ little yallar,” her kind heart full of anxiety for Tildy 
Ann. 

There was no evidence of life about the cottage, no vestige 
of smoke issued from the chimney. Failing to make herself 
heard from the front, Hannah hastened to the rear door, and 
after pounding and calling, for a few seconds, she threw her 
whole weight against it till the wooden button, that was its 
only bolt, gave way, and she stood inside the little cheerless 
kitchen. 

All was cold and desolate, the fireless hearth and untidy 
condition telling but too plainly the absence of the mistress. 
With a sinking at her heart Hannah hastened into the next 
room. With but a swift glance at the black and yawning fire¬ 
place, filled with the ghosts of long dead fires, she stepped to 
the bed where poor Tildy Ann lay, covered only by two worn 
and ragged blankets. Bending over her, Hannah spoke her 
name, but a faint moan and a stare from two vacant eyes, was 
her only answer. 

Seizing a heavy braided rug from the floor, she threw it over 
the nearly frozen woman, piling her own wraps on top of this. 
Then hurrying to the woodshed she gathered up a basket of 
chips and the remaining half dozen sticks of wood, the last 
of Tildy Ann’s hoarded fuel, and soon they were burning 
briskly in the fireplace. Heating some water, and melting the 
frozen milk she found in a bowl, she forced a little of the 
warm liquid down the sick woman’s throat. Then hastening 
to the door, she glanced eagerly up and down the country 
road, till she spied a neighboring farmer driving toward her 
with a load of cut wood. Motioning him to stop, Hannah 
stated the case in a few words, and soon a goodly pile of hard 
wood nearly filled the little woodshed, while the sympathetic 
farmer was hastening with all speed to the village in quest of 
the doctor. Like wildfire, the news of Tildy Ann’s condition 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


209 


spread through the little village, and many kind-hearted 
people hastened to the 11 little yallar ’ ’ with offers of substantial 
help, that alas! seemed to have arrived all too late. With un¬ 
tiring devotion Hannah Peabody watched day and night beside 
the sickbed, and her tender heart was moved to deepest pity as 
she listened to Tildy Ann’s delirious words, and realized with 
what uncomplaining patience she had borne the dire poverty 
of the long winter months. 

At last the fight was over, the battle won, and thanks to; 
Hannah’s good nursing, Tildy Ann Perkins crept slowly but 
surely back into the sunshine of returning health. About this 
time another parish supper was held in the vestry of the vil¬ 
lage church. With the spirit of a warrior who wins all or 
none, Hannah Peabody rose and called the attention of the 
gathered assembly. With characteristic brevity, she told the 
story of Tildy Ann Perkins’s mock mince pies, and her reason 
for using that particular receipt. Then she asked all of those 
who had eaten of them, to testify once more as to their merits 
for winning the prize quilt. 

As before, the vote was unanimous, and in spite of Mrs. 
Josiah Holden’s but too evident reluctance, the quilt, with its 
precious square of loyal blue, was placed once more in Tildy 
Ann’s possession. 

But best of all was the arrival of the long delayed pension, 
that lifted the little widow forever above want, and turned the 
humble “little yallar” into a home of comfort and plenty. 


ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. 


Cupid rules the world today, 

Many the pranks he’s sure to play; 
Saucily flinging his love-tipped darts, 
Heedless of wounds or tender smarts; 
None are safe, not e’en the old; 

Hearts both sad, and hard and cold, 
All are touched by Cupid’s sway, 
Sporting merry on Valentine’s Day. 


i 






210 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


THE HEART OF HER HUSBAND. 


The rush and roar of the incoming train, made the passen¬ 
gers start quickly to their feet, and they were swept on with 
the outward bound crowd. 

“Change your mind, Margaret, and come with me. It’s not 
too late, even now,” said the man holding the woman’s arm 
closely, as they hurried along. 

“I cannot, Oscar, the boys need me here,” answered she 
quickly. 

“But has the boys’ father no claim, Margaret?” asked he. 

“Yes, Oscar, surely, and when the boys are through school, 
I will come to you. It will only be a few years now.” 

“All aboard!” shouted the conductor. 

For a brief instant the man and woman clung together, then 
a cloud of black smoke hid the vanishing train from view. 

* ‘ Only a few years now— ’ ’ 

His wife’s last words kept repeating themselves over and 
over again, in his brain, and Oscar Houghton smiled some¬ 
what bitterly. 

The coolness of her tone, the seeming lack of affection for 
him, or interest in his welfare, made the loneliness of his situa¬ 
tion more intense. In a quiet corner of the smoker, with his 
face hidden behind a newspaper, his thoughts kept pace with 
the swiftly flying train. 

Two years before, when his physician had warned him that 
he must live in a warmer climate, he had tried to persuade his 
wife to give up her Northern home, and take up her abode in 
the sunny South. The real Northerner’s prejudice for the 
South and its environments were too strong within her, and 
she had let him go alone, to seek for the elixir of life. 

In less than a year he had found both health and wealth; 
or, at least, a certain amount of both, with the promise of 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


211 


future blessings. Then, with a hopeful heart, he had made a 
trip north, to bring back with him his wife and boys. But no. 
His wife was comfortably settled in her father’s home, who 
was a clergyman in a Massachusetts town, and the boys were 
doing so well at a good school, it would never do to take them 
away, till they were older. Thus she over-ruled his persua¬ 
sions, and he went back alone. Another year had passed 
away; a year that had fulfilled its promise, in health and pros¬ 
perity, and yet, the joy it gave was tempered with acute long¬ 
ings for wife and children. Again, he had journeyed north, 
with pleasant anticipations for the future, yet alas, the re¬ 
turn trip is made alone. Swiftly his thoughts leap through 
space, and rest upon the beautiful spot, in the city of San 
Antonio, that so-called ‘ < Garden of Texas, ’ ’ where he had made 
his home. How like a mockery it seemed as he thought of the 
empty house awaiting him. The lovely abode he had pre¬ 
pared, with such loving forethought, for his dear ones. Ah! 
could Margaret but imagine the beauties of that southern city, 
that sits queenlike.on the banks of the crystalline stream that 
winds her crown like a thread of diamonds. Could she but 
dream of the romantic bridges that span the river in a dozen 
places, the shady banks fresh and beautiful, the vineclad trees, 
semi-tropical plants and green lawns, that mark the course of 
the river. Could she wander in thought, even, through those 
quaint old streets, where still stand the Mexican adobes, with 
the moss of a century growing on their roofs. In vain had 
been Oscar’s vivid word paintings of that beautiful spot; in 
vain had been his repetition of those thrilling historical events, 
that are clustered in the annals of San Antonio. All had 
failed to awaken in Margaret the slightest interest. Her an¬ 
swer was always the same. 

“You know, Oscar, that I detest the South, and always 
shall.” 

And so it happens, that, as Oscar Houghton steps once more 
within the city that is his adopted home, the weight of his 
disappointment lies heavily upon him. It is the hour of ves¬ 
pers in the cathedral of San Fernando. The deep notes of the 




212 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


organ, the chanting voices of the choir, float upon the air with 
solemn sweetness. A sudden impulse draws Oscar into that 
vast interior. It is like entering a new world. Outside the 
heat is intense, and the air is filled with the din of every day 
life. Here the flower-scented air fans his brow with delicious 
coolness, while the grand sweet music falls upon his ear like 
a tender benediction. His eyes rest upon the mass of kneeling 
figures with curious awe. High and low, rich and poor, 
Spanish and American mingle their prayers together. The 
shawl of the Mexican woman and the lace mantilla of the 
high born Spanish dame are bowed side by side. Suddenly the 
organ peels forth a louder strain. The people rise. The great 
doors are flung apart, and that mass of humanity move out¬ 
ward. Jolted by the crowd, the button of his coat sleeve 
catches the lace of a passing mantilla. 

The slim brown hand of its wearer is thrust forth, and quick¬ 
ly detaches the wayward lace and Oscar has a glimpse of two 
dark eyes and dazzling white teeth, as she smiles in response 
to his hurried,— 

“Beg pardon, Senorita.” 

The Spanish girl glides swiftly past, and is lost in the crowd. 
Outside the swinging music of a Mexican band sounds in rude 
contrast to the solemn strains that issue from the old cathe¬ 
dral. With bold insolence the gay musicians push against the 
people as they pass along, and one impudent fellow seizes the 
slim waist of a pretty Spanish girl and whirls her about in an 
impromptu dance. With a cry of alarm, the girl struggles to 
release herself, but the man only laughs and holds her more 
firmly. ^ Indignantly, Oscar watches the unequal struggle, then 
with one well directed blow, he hurls the insulting fellow far 
out into the dusty street. Turning to the girl, who stands 
pale and trembling, a little apart from the crowd, he says 
anxiously,— 

“Are you hurt Senorita?” 

“Only a little frightened, Sen or Houghton,” answered the 
girl, smiling. 

Oscar looked surprised as she speaks his name. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


213 


“You have the advantage, Senorita,” said he lifting his 
hat. 

“My name is Dolores Guerrerro, and my home is just across 
the way from the Senor’s new house,’’ said she. 

“What, is that romantic moss-crowned adobe, by which I 
daily pass, your home?” said Oscar in pleased surprise. 

“Yes, Senor. It has been the home of the Guerrerros for 
more than a century,” answered the girl gravely. 

“I am delighted that I have so charming a neighbor,” said 
Oscar gallantly, “and as our way is the same, shall I not see 
you safely to your door?” 

A swift smile and a musical “Thank you, Senor,” and the 
two walked on together, followed closely by the girl’s duenna. 

A little later, having parted with Senorita Guerrerro, Oscar 
Houghton passes into his own grounds, whistling softly to him¬ 
self. The little adventure has diverted him, and he runs up 
the steps of the piazza, with a lighter heart than he would 
have thought possible, a few hours before. The acquaintance 
thus begun ripens into friendship, as the days glide swiftly 
onward. It was such a simple, natural thing, to pause for a 
daily chat with the pretty Spanish girl as he passes her door, 
or to wander together, through his own spacious grounds, in 
the early twilight when the crimson sunset trails a welcome 
to the rising moon; and in the presence of a discreet duenna, 
to mingle the smoke of his cigar with that of her dainty ciga¬ 
rette. Or, sitting upon his vine-shaded piazza, he listens to 
the sweet tones of her guitar, till he drifts into a state of con¬ 
tent, and lives in the present only. Margaret’s weekly letters 
arrive with dutiful regularity, yet they seem to Oscar but the 
echo of an existence, long past and nearly forgotten, while the 
beautiful present filled with subtle charm, takes firmer hold 
of his senses. At last there comes a day when, having fallen 
asleep three times, during the perusal of one of Margaret’s 
long letters, he starts to his feet, troubled and ashamed. Long 
and deeply he ponders, then, with sudden conviction, he be¬ 
lieves there is but one course to pursue, and he sits down and 
writes Margaret a letter. 





214 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


It is some two weeks later, that one afternoon, Margaret 
Houghton sits alone in the cosy parsonage parlor of her North¬ 
ern home. The day is cool, and a fire burns brightly in the 
open grate. Her usually busy hands are folded idly in her lap, 
and her face looks worn and weary. A vague feeling of dis¬ 
satisfaction and unrest fills her heart, for though Margaret 
Houghton is a thoroughly good woman, yet like so many 
others, she could truly say, “The mistakes of my life have 
been many.” 

Into the midst of her musings comes the postman’s ring, and 
a flush of expectation colors her cheeks, as she opens Oscar’s 
letter. It is brief and to the point. 

“Dear"Margaret:—” it ran, “As it seems impossible to over¬ 
come your prejudice for the South, where, if I would live at 
all, I must henceforth make my home, perhaps it would be 
best to have a legal separation, and thus end the present un¬ 
comfortable state of affairs. Then, if I so desired, I could form 
new ties, for I quite agree with the scriptural saying that “it 
is not well for man to dwell alone.” Of course I shall pro¬ 
vide for you and the boys, as at present, and feel the same in¬ 
terest in your welfare. Judge me as kindly as you can, Mar¬ 
garet, and write me your wishes in this matter. Oscar.” 

The letter falls from her cold hand, and as though icy fin¬ 
gers clutched her throat, her breath seems to leave her body, 
and the blackness of night enfolds her. As her vision clears, 
she realizes for the first time, the utter selfishness of her own 
heart, and the coldness of her nature. And yet she sees, for 
the first time, that beneath that crust of cold selfishness there 
lies an Undercurrent of passionate tenderness and love, of in¬ 
finite trust and faith in the man she had married. Oh! why 
had she been so blind? Why had she not seen her duty more 
clearly? Why had she not followed more closely her marriage 
vow, to leave all, and cleave unto her husband? And now,— 
was it too late to undo the wrong? Too late to win back the 
love, which she had so carelessly let slip from her hold? With 
a moan, she buries her face in her hands, and cries aloud, * * Oh, 
God! give me back the heart of my husband!” 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


215 


That night the southward bound train carried among its 
passengers the wife of Oscar Houghton. Not an instant had 
she lost in making her preparations, yet now, behind the cur¬ 
tains of her sleeper, she lies with wide staring eyes, chafing in¬ 
wardly, at the slow moving train. The journey seems inter¬ 
minable, yet, like all earthly pilgrimages, it comes to an end 
at last. 

Her first glimpse of that beautiful city is a surprise to Mar¬ 
garet’s Northern eyes. The balmy air, fragrant with the 
breath of many flowers, soothes the fever in her veins, and un¬ 
consciously she takes new courage. With womanly instinct, 
she goes directly to a hotel, removes the dust of travel, and 
forces herself to take a short rest. Then, daintily and freshly 
attired, she orders a carriage and is driven to her husband’s 
home. It is just at dusk of a lovely day, and Oscar Houghton 
leans back in his easy chair, as he sits upon the broad veranda, 
and blows the smoke from his cigar with a thoughtful air. In 
a gay colored hammock swinging gently to and fro, reclines 
the Spanish girl, Dolores Guerrerro. A cigarette is between 
her red lips, while her fingers wander idly across the strings 
of a guitar. It is the musical twang of this instrument that 
greets Margaret ’s ear, as the carriage pauses before the gate. 
Oscar starts quickly forward at sight of that strangely fami¬ 
liar figure. 

“Is it possible, Margaret, that it is you?” he exclaimed a 
little coldly. 

Margaret’s lips grew pale though she forces a smile, as she 
answers brightly, “Yes, dear, I thought I would give you a 
surprise,” and she holds up her face for a warmer greeting. 

During the days that followed Margaret’s arrival South, 
Oscar’s state of mind was a mixture of joy and regret. No 
mention had been made of his letter. Apparently oblivious of 
it Margaret takes her place at the head of his household. In 
a marvelously short time, her personality has diffused itself 
through every room, till they have a home-like charm, before 
unknown. Mystified and wandering, Oscar watches Margaret 
with a new light in his eyes. Never in the days of their court- 



216 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


ship had she seemed more charming. Graciously, she ever in¬ 
cludes the pretty Senorita within their home circle, and Oscar 
shrinks within himself as he draws the contrast between them. 

' Oh! if it were only possible to recall that letter! The days 
and weeks slip by, and a month has flown. Two months, and 
Margaret feels that she must make the final test of her hus¬ 
band’s love. Once more they are sitting alone in the gloam¬ 
ing. The scent of roses and the soft twitter of nesting birds 
fill the air. With a supreme effort Margaret speaks. 

“Well, Oscar, I have made you a nice long visit. Don’t 
you think I had better go home now?” 

Oscar’s face pales a little in the moonlight. 

“What do you mean, Margaret? Is not this your home? 
Have you not been happy here?” said he quickly. 

“Yes, Oscar, very happy. And you?” answers Margaret, 
her voice trembling slightly. 

Oscar moves to his wife’s side, and draws her within the 
circle of his arm. 

“Margaret,” said he with a swift caress, “the weeks that 
have just gone have been the happiest that I have known for 
years. You cannot be so cruel as to leave me alone again.” 

Margaret looks earnestly into her husband’s face as she an¬ 
swers slowly: 

“But, Oscar, what about a legal separation?” 

“Oh, Margaret! I was mad, to have written you that letter. 
I had begun to believe that it had never reached you. Will 
you not forgive and forget it?” cried Oscar, his voice full of 
regret. 

“Yes, Oscar, I do forgive, though I hope I may never for¬ 
get that it has taught me where my true home is—” 

“Here within the heart of your husband,” finished Oscar 
tenderly. 


Every human soul today, 
Past youth’s golden prime, 
Bears upon the heart alway 
Finger-marks of time. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


217 


THE LOST MANUSCRIPT. 


It was late in the summer that the old Spaulding homestead 
was burned to the ground. For more than a hundred years it 
had withstood the storms of the changing seasons. Three gen¬ 
erations of Spauldings had dwelt beneath its roof, and the 
comedy and tragedy of human life had been enacted within 
its walls. Levi Spaulding, the last of his time and generation, 
had made his home there for more than forty years. He was a 
man of education and rare intelligence, a man of studious 
habits and thoughtful ways, a man of much importance to his 
own township, who was known throughout the county as an 
easy writer and a fluent speaker. Stress of circumstances had 
forced him to give up a larger sphere to return to the old 
homestead, there to till the soil and to take from Mother Earth 
the living she owes her children. For a number of years his 
leisure hours had been spent in writing a history of the town 
in which he was born, a work that would be of great value to 
the town’s people when published. In his eightieth year the 
book was completed, but before it reached the hands of the 
publishers, the old homestead and all it contained was swept 
away by fire. His wife and granddaughter Mertice, a girl of 
twenty, made up his family at this time, his son and wife 
having died when Mertice was but a small child. The sun¬ 
shine of the old homestead, the comfort and joy of her aged 
grandparents, was Mertice Spaulding. She was a girl of ster¬ 
ling character, with a beautiful face and a heart of gold. It 
had long been Levi Spaulding’s pet scheme that the result of 
his literary labors should be his beloved granddaughter’s wed¬ 
ding dower. Alas! nothing but ashes remained of those once 
fair hopes, and the old man’s spirit sank beneath the blow. 

The site of the old homestead was a beautiful one, though 
lonely in the extreme. Five miles from the village of A-, 






218 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


it stood high upon a hilltop, with a background of woods and 
mountains, a wide sweep of sky, made gorgeous by the ever- 
changing sunsets, above, green meadows with silvery gleaming 
brooks and wild flower blooms, below. With the nearest neigh¬ 
bor a mile away, there was but little chance of succor in their 
hour of need. A defective chimney was supposed to have been 
the cause of the fire, and their feeble efforts were useless to 
quench its power. In one short day the treasures of a lifetime, 
the heirlooms of a century, the hopes of years had vanished 
in smoke. 

It was the night following the fire that Mertice Spaulding 
and her lover, John Wilder, stood in the early gloaming beside 
the ruins of the old homestead. With her grandparents she 
had found a temporary home in the village, and she and John 
had driven out to view again the smouldering embers of that 
cruel fire. The girl’s face looked pale and worn in the dim 
light, yet the blue eyes glanced trustingly into her lover’s 
face, as she said with a smile: 

“I shall make but a poor bride now, John, for with the loss 
of grandfather’s book, I have lost my wedding dower.” 

A slight color crept into the young man’s face as he an¬ 
swered a little bitterly: “What a pity that even that much 
couldn’t have been saved.” 

“I know it, John,” answered Mertice, “and yet that is noth¬ 
ing compared with the loss of our dear old home, the home 
where grandpa and grandma have lived so long. It is for 
them, John, that I grieve, not for us who are young and strong 
and can make a new home so easily. But to have such a loss 
come to the aged is like tearing out their heartstrings, like up¬ 
rooting the very source of their lives. We must be very tender 
of them, John, and make them our first care.” 

“Perhaps you would like to postpone our marriage for that 
purpose, Mertice?” said John, quickly. 

Mertice’s face crimsoned hotly. 

“Why, no, John, I thought perhaps we had better hasten it 
instead, so that we might help them to make a new home the 
sooner,” said she, her voice trembling with the effort of her 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


219 


words. “Dear, I know that you love me too well to blame me 
for thus speaking,” she added, leaning against him confiding¬ 
ly* 

For an instant John Wilder did not speak, though his arm 
tightened about the girl’s waist. 

* 1 Of course, Mertice, ’ ’ said he at last, yet his words sounded 
cold to her strained ear, “it’s all right for you to speak, and 
yet I’m not sure that I want to be saddled with two old people 
to begin life with.” 

As though he had struck her a blow, Mertice shrank from 
his hold, and her lips whitened as she answered slowly: 

“You shall not be saddled with them, John, nor with me 

either. ’ ’ 

“There! Mertice, don’t get angry!” said John, impatiently. 
“But as things have turned out I think it will be wiser for us 
to wait a while, rather than to hasten matters.” 

“I am perfectly willing to wait, John, forever,” answered 
Mertice, with trembling lips. 

“That is for you to decide, Mertice, though I never should 
use so unkind a word,” answered the young man, coldly. 

A deadly sinking at her heart seemed to benumb the girl’s 
senses. Silently she watched John as he stepped out into the 
road to where his restless horse stood pawing the ground. 
The shadows of night had settled about them and the charred 
and blackened ruins yawned with deeper gloom. 

“Come, Mertice, it is growing late; hadn’t we better be 
going back?” said John, loosening the horse, and turning to 
where she had so lately stood. Yet still, she did not speak. 
“Mertice! Mertice! where are you?” called he again, striving 
to peer through the darkness. Still no sound but the whip- 
poor-will’s plaintive note answered him. 

With a muttered curse, he led his uneasy horse back to a tree 
and fastened him securely. Then stepping quickly into the 
space about the ruins, he searched carefully among the shrubs 
and bushes for the missing girl. Suddenly a wild anger seemed 
to quench his fears and he exclaimed fiercely: 





) 


220 BREATH OF THE HILLS 




“Confound the girl! What does she mean by hiding from 
me like this? It would serve her right to leave her to find her 
way home alone. ,> 

“And be the act of a coward like John Wilder/’ said a 
man’s voice from the roadside. 

John started and faced the intruder angrily. He was a tall 
man wearing a farmer’s suit and a wide straw hat. Over his 
shoulder he carried a scythe. 

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” demanded 
John, hotly. 

Leaning his scythe against the stone wall, the man took off 
his big straw hat and fanned himself deliberately. 

“Well,” said he slowly, “my name ’s Hiram Prentice, an’ 
I’m a friend an’ neighbor of the folks that have just been 
burned out of house an’ home. An’ I’ve my opinion of a man 
that ’ll talk the way you have to the girl you pretend to care 
for. ’ ’ 

“So, you’ve been listening, have you?” cried John, angrily, 
striding toward him with uplifted arm. “Well, take that for 
your impudence.” 

A grasp of iron stayed the impending blow, while the young 
farmer, with the ease of a giant/lifted John bodily and flung 
him into the waiting carriage. Turning the horse, he tossed 

the reins to John with contemptuous scorn. 

“There, git!” said he, briefly. “An’ I’ll see that no harm 
comes to Mertice Spaulding.” 

The startled horse sprang away and was soon down the hill 
and out of sight. As the sound of the wheels died away in 
the distance, Hiram walked quietly across the road, and paused 
within the shade of a huge maple. Crouched against its mas¬ 
sive trunk was Mertice, her face buried in her hands. For a 
little while the young man watched her silently. 

“I’m thinkin’ o’ walkin’ down to the village, Mertice, an’ 
if you don’t mind, I’ll walk ’long o’ you,” said he at last, a 
little diffidently. 

The girl rose slowly to her feet. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


221 


“Thank you, Hiram, I’ll be very glad of your company,” 
answered she, and the two stepped out into the dusty highway. 

By this time the moon had risen and was flooding the world 
with its glorious light. Like a silver thread the road wound 
in and out among the green trees, now past open fields or new 
mown hay, now past a solitary farmhouse, and now past fra¬ 
grant meadows, sweet with the breath of cowslips, and musical 
with the hum of insect life. To the country bred girl the five- 
mile walk meant no unusual fatigue, yet now her heavy heart 
made leaden the feet that carried her. With an effort she hid 
her wounds with cheerful talk, and to Hiram Prentice that 
moonlight walk and the sweet face of Mertice Spaulding left 
a memory that remained with him always. 


Ten years have come and gone. Ten times has the earth 
awakened to springtime gladness and slept beneath the win¬ 
ter’s ermine robes, and once more the glorious summer blesses 
the earth with its wealth of bloom. On the site of the old 
Spaulding homestead has risen a new dwelling, and the lives 
of the inmates have long since settled back into the peace 
and quite of other days. Although ninety years of age, Levi 
Spaulding is still a hale and hearty old man, vigorous in mind 
and body. After the first shock of the fire he had accepted 
the inevitable with patient resignation. 

The loss of his book manuscript he had felt keenly, and 
ceased to write from that time. To Mertice Spaulding the 
years had flowed on quietly and uneventfully. Although John 
Wilder had come to her with apologies and excuses, she could 
not forget that dark hour beside the smouldering ruins of her 
old home. And so, when a little later he had left the village 
to seek employment elsewhere, she had said good-bye calmly, 
knowing in her heart that it was forever. A kind neighbor 
and a faithful friend was Hiram Prentice, and the years had 
not altered his faithfulness. It was on the tenth anniversary 
of the day of the fire that Hiram walked into the farmhouse 
kitchen with a bundle of papers in his hand. Tossing them 
into Mertice’s lap, he said: 





222 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Here’s something I found in the old dry well back of the 
house. I was cutting the grass, and by accident I pushed 
aside the flat stone that covered the well, and the first thing I 
spied was this roll of paper high and dry on a projecting stone. 
Perhaps you can tell me what it is.” 

“Why, Hiram!” exclaimed Mertice, grasping the roll ex¬ 
citedly. “It’s grandpa’s manuscript that we thought was 
burned. How on earth could it have gotten into the old well ? ’ ’ 

“I declare for ’t, Mertice,” cried grandma Spaulding, peer¬ 
ing at the precious roll curiously, “I jest remember ’t I put 
’em there myself, when the fire broke out, an’ I ’d clean for¬ 
got all about ’em.” 

Levi Spaulding spoke never a word, yet his trembling fin¬ 
gers clung to that bundle of papers as to the hand of a long- 
lost friend. 

Thus it happened that the long delayed book was finally 
published, and the name and fame of Levi Spaulding became 
inseparable with the annals of the old hill town. A consider¬ 
able sum was realized from its sale, and, true to his first inten¬ 
tion, the old man placed it in his granddaughter’s hands, say¬ 
ing quaintly: 

“Better late than never, Mertice,” and a faint blush stole 
into the girl’s cheek as she thanked him. 

It was soon after these events had transpired that Hiram 
Prentice strolled over to the Spaulding homestead one evening. 
As he approached the house he saw a stylish team standing by 
the roadside, while a man stood talking earnestly with Mertice 
as she leaned against the vine covered porch. 

A second glance told him it was John Wilder, and though 
he had long believed that his own love was hopeless, his heart 
was filled with bitterness at the thought of the possible recon¬ 
ciliation of these old lovers. He was about to turn away, 
when to his surprise, the man suddenly walked to his waiting 
carriage, and, springing quickly in, drove rapidly down the 
hill and out of sight. With an irresistible impulse Hiram ap¬ 
proached the girl. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


223 


“Am I to congratulate you, Mertice?” asked he as he stood 
beside her. 

With brilliant eyes and crimson cheeks, she turned and 
faced him. 

“Yes, Hiram! Congratulate me on my escape from the hands 
of a thoroughly selfish and unscrupulous man! ’ ’ said she. * ‘ Oh, 
Hiram, do you not know that I value your friendship a thou¬ 
sand times more than the love of such a man as John Wilder?” 

A flush rose in Hiram’s sunburned face, a new-born courage 
forced him to speak. 

“But, Mertice, suppose that friendship had ripened into 
love, what then?” 

“Then I should congratulate myself indeed,” answered Mer¬ 
tice, holding both hands to him with a smile that meant all 
things to Hiram Prentice. 


FAITHLESS. 


I thought I had something to cling to 
As long as life should last; 

That, amid life’s sea, you ever would be 
A rock that stood firm and fast. 

I thought your heart was the truest, 

A heart all rubies and gold, 

That time nor tide, nor aught beside, 

Could alter or make grow cold. 

I thought your love was the purest, 

A love with a touch divine, 

That had not its birth in the dross of earth, 
Was stronger, more pure and fine. 

I thought your faith was the strongest 
That human faith could be, 

And would waver not whate’er my lot, 
But steadfast cling to me. 






224 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


HULDAH’S CHRISTMAS DEBT. 


“ Taint no use a talkin’, Huldah, I can’t spare the money, 
an’ that’s the end on’t.” Azariah Moore slammed down the 
wooden cover of his old-fashioned desk, and turned the key 
with a loud click. 

“But it’s a debt, Azariah, a Christmas debt, an’ I know 
that Sabina expects us to give her something Christmas, sure. 
It’s two years now since she sent us that spring-rocker in the 
parlor, an’ I heard she told all around that it cost ten dollars. 
I think on’t every time I sit in ’t, an’ I don’t take a mite o’ 
comfort, nohow, an’ I sha’n’t till I’ve give her a present of 
equal value.” 

Azariah’s clenched fist came down upon his desk with a 
bang, as he burst out angrily: 

“That’s jest the very thing that’s a spilin’ the thoughts o’ 
Christmas, the world over! It’s a-gettin’ so that Christmas is 
a regular nuisance, instead o’ bein’ a time o’ peace an’ blessed¬ 
ness as the Lord intended. Folks make presents with the 
thought o’ gettin’ ’em all back, an’ are dreadful’ put out ef 
they don’t.” 

“Now I’m jest goin’ to put a stop to ’t es far es we’re con¬ 
cerned, Huldah, an’ ef anyone sends us any more chairs an’ 
things, you may send ’em back an’ tell ’em we aint a-tradin’; 
we’ve got through.” 

Huldah Moore watched her husband silently as he took down 
his old ulster and cap, and marched out of the house toward 
the barn. Long experience had taught her that when Azariah 
was “riled” apparent acquiescence was her wisest course. The 
dorr was no sooner closed that her discontent found vent in 
muttered words, as she bustled about, putting away the sup¬ 
per dishes. 

“It’s a-gettin’ so Azariah ’s growin’ dreadful touchy every 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


225 


time I ask for a cent o’ money, Christmas or no Christmas!” s 
said nshe. “An’ I’d like to know ef the money aint mine es 
much as ’tis hisn? I make the butter an’ the cheese, take care 
o’ the hens’ eggs an’ pluck the fowls for the market! An’ 
Azariah jest puts away the money an’ seems to think I don’t 
need to use any on ’t. Cousin Sabina Wood has alius been a 
good friend to me, an’ she couldn’t no more afford to give me 
that rocker, than I can to make her a present. That writin’ 
desk I saw down to the village was jest ten dollars, an’ I’d 
like to give it to Sabina, ’n’ then I could take some comfort 
a-settin’ in that rocker.” 

As the days sped onward, this thought dwelt constantly in 
Huldah’s mind, though she said nothing to Azariah in regard 
to it. At last it wanted but a week before Christmas, when 
suddenly she came to a swift decision. It was a clear, cold 
day, and good sledding. Azariah had taken the two horses 
and had gone for a load of wood, and would not be at home 
before night. As the thought, which had taken possession of 
her, suddenly developed, she walked quickly to Azariah’s desk, 
and selecting a key from a bunch she had taken from her 
pocket, she hastily opened it. From an old, black wallet she 
drew a roll of bank bills. Two tens and a five. 

“There!” she exclaimed, “I knew Azariah had twenty-five 
dollars tucked away in that old wallet, an’ I may as well have 
ten on ’t as not. ’Taint right for him to be so close with me, 
an’ I aint a-goin’ to be so meechin’ ’bout takin’ what belongs 
to me as I have been, either. I suppose he’ll be terrible riled 
when he finds it out. Well, Bixby told me he’d give me ten 
dollars for Bess’s new calf, an’ if I have to, I can sell her, 
though I don’t want to a mite. Anyway my mind’s made up 
to get that desk for Sabina, calf or no calf. ’ ’ 

With these words she separated ten dollars from the other 
bills, put back the wallet, and closed and locked the desk. 
Huldah was a good walker, and the three miles to the village 
and back was easily accomplished before sundown. On her 
return she walked directly into the little, cold parlor, and 
bringing out the spring rocker, she placed it in the cosiest 




226 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


corner of the pleasant sitting-room. Dropping down into its 
cushioned arms, she swayed to and fro with a luxurious sigh. 

“I declare ef this aint the first real good rock I’ve had in 
this chair!” muttered she, contendedly. “Somehow I never 
quite dared let my whole heft down on the springs afore, but 
now ’t I’ve sent Sabina that desk I’m jest a-goin’ to set down 
solid an’ take my comfort.” 

As the supper hour approached, and Azariah returned, her 
satisfaction seemed to lessen somewhat, and in spite of herself 
an uneasy dread, whenever her husband’s eyes turned toward 
his desk, or glanced in the direction of the spring-rocker, dis¬ 
turbed her serenity. The days melted rapidly one into an¬ 
other, and it was sunrise of the day before Christmas. Each 
day Huldah had grown more and more nervous, till her fin¬ 
gers trembled, and her heart leaped to her throat whenever 
Azariah glanced at his desk. 

As it happened, however, he had had no occasion to use the 
desk for a few days, and so had not discovered his loss. Sud¬ 
denly Azariah’s voice calling her from the barn, startled her. 

“Huldah! Huldah! The calf is gone! Some tarnal thief has 
stolen him!” And sure enough! A broken window, the part¬ 
ly open barn door, and strange footprints in the snow, told the 

story. 

“No chance o’ gettin’ that ten dollars N back now!” muttered 
Huldah, with a sinking heart. 

A little later Azariah walked hastily into the house, and 
going to his desk threw back the cover. A sudden weakness 
crept into Huldah’s knees, and she sat down. 

“I’m a-goin’ to harness up an’ take a look around for that 
calf, Huldah,” said he. “An’ while I’m about it I may as 
well go round by Tom Jones’s an’ pay the interest on the 
mortgage. It falls due the twenty-sixth, you know, but Tom’s 
been sort o’ crusty with me lately, an’ he’d like nothin’ bettei 
’n a chance to foreclose. He aint a-goin to get it, though, no' 
ef I know myself!” chuckled Azariah, still fumbling about ii 
his desk. “Thunder ’n lightnin’! Huldah! Where’s my wal 
let?” he burst out suddenly. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


227 


“Why, why, Azariah, aint it there?” answered Huldah, 
slowly. 

“No ’t aint’ I can’t find hide nor hair on’ t. Some pesky 
thief has got into the house an’ stole that, too, like es not. 
Huldah rose, and together they searched the desk thoroughly 
for the missing wallet, but in vain. What it meant she could 
not imagine, yet mingled with her fright was the thought, that 
now, Azariah need not know that she had taken the ten dol¬ 
lars. 

“ ’Taint es if I could lay my hand on twenty-five dollars in 
cash, any minute!” said he. “I don’t see how I’m a-goin’ to 
get it nohow before the twenty-sixth. An’ Tom ’ll be after it 
bright an’ early, ’fore breakfast, sure.” 

“Ye see now, Huldah, jest why I couldn’t spare the money 
for Christmas debts, es you call ’em.” 

11 Oh, Azariah! I ’d clean forgot about that interest! ’ ’ said 
Huldah, meekly. 

“Humph! that ’s jest like a woman!” growled Azariah, as 
he left the house to go in search of the stolen calf. 

As soon as he was gone, Huldah made a more thorough 
search for the old wallet, yet it was nowhere to be found. 
Sinking down in the spring rocker, her thoughts grew more 
and more troubled. It couldn’t be possible that a thief had 
entered the house without her knowledge, and taken the wal¬ 
let ! And surely she had replaced it after subtracting the ten 
dollars. As her mind reverted to this act, a slight flush crept 
into her face. With an effort she strove to shake off the un¬ 
comfortable sensation. 

“Dear me!” she muttered crossly. “Any one ’d think that 
I was the thief myself, I feel so sort o ’ queer an ’ streaked like. 
An’ I aint no call to either, for what ’s his’n’s mine, an’ what 
’s mine ’s his’n. Land sakes, though, ef I’d once thought o’ 
that mortgage, I’d’a’ give up the idee o’ gettin’ Sabina that 
desk. But la! what’s done ’s done, though I’d like to know 
where ’n creation that wallet ’s gone to.” 

Christmas dawned as gloriously, as it did that day so long 
ago, when the wise men knelt before that new-born babe. Mer- 






228 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


rily the village church bells rang out a joyous peal, spreading 
the good tidings far and near. Brightly the sunshine streamed 
into Azariah Moore’s pleasant farmhouse, and danced glee¬ 
fully across the kitchen floor. 

Alas! it was with heavy hearts that the inmates welcomed 
the new day. The stolen calf, the missing wallet, and the vex¬ 
ing thought of the mortgage, drove from Azariah’s mind all 
feelings of Christmas joy, and Huldah arose, heavy eyed and 
weary, from a sleepless pillow. The hours dragged slowly on, 
and silent and morose, Azariah and Huldah sat down to their 
lonely Christmas dinner. Suddenly the woman’s overstrained 
nerves gave way, and dropping her knife and fork, she burst 
into a storm of sobs and tears. 

“What ’s the matter with ye, Huldah, be ye sick?” ex¬ 
claimed the astonished man, for not since their only son Joe 
had left home, five years before, had he heard his wife cry. 

“Yes, I be, Azariah, sick an’ tired o’ feelin’ like a thief! 
An’ I wish that Sabina Wood never ’d a give me that spring 
rocker! an’ that Christmas didn’t come but once in ten years!” 
cried Huldah, hysterically. 

“What makes ye feel like a thief, Huldah?” said Asariah, 
his voice growing cold and stern. 

“ ’Caus’ I took ten dollars out ’n that old wallet, an’ 
bought Sabina a desk for Christmas, an’ ’caus’ you told me I 
couldn’t have it, I’ve felt like a thief ever since,” sobbed she. 

“Where ’s the rest on ’t?” asked her husband. 

“I don’t know,” answered Huldah. 

“Well, I don’t wonder ’t ye feel like a thief, Huldah, ’caus’ 
that’s what ye be. An’ ye aint no wife o’ mine,” said Aza¬ 
riah, his voice hoarse with anger, and rising, he took his hat 
and coat and left the house. 

For the first time in Huldah Moore’s life, a feeling of faint¬ 
ness so overpowered her that the room grew dark as night. 
Her tears seemed to congeal upon her cheeks, and her heart 
lay like lead in her bosom. This was a climax she had not 
foreseen. That Azariah would be “riled” and perhaps say a 
few cross words at her confession, she had expected, but 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


229 


that he should actually say the cruel words that still rung in 
her ears, ‘ ‘ ye aint no wife o ’ mine! ’ ’ was a blow that crushed 
her utterly. Mechanically she moved about, doing the dishes, 
and tidying the room; then going to a closet she took from it 
her bonnet and cloak. Gathering a few garments together in 
a small bag, she tied her bonnet strings, and walked quietly 
from the house. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, 
and made dark spots upon the snowy whiteness of the road. 

Huldah’s face was white and set, as she hastened along, and 
her eyes glanced desperately about her, as if in farewell to 
each familiar object. On she went until within a mile of the 
village when weary and footsore she sank down upon the 
stone wall by the roadside. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, nor where I’m a-goin’ 
to!” muttered the poor woman hopelesly. ‘‘There aint no one 
that’ll take me in unless it’s Sabina, an’ like es not she won’t 
when she finds I aint got no home to go back to. Oh, dear! 
oh, dear! who’d ever a-thought ’t would come to this at my 
time o ’ life, an ’ on Christmas of all days in the year! ’ ’ Cover¬ 
ing her face, she wept silently. 

Suddenly the sound of sleigh bells aroused her, and she 
started to her feet. In the dim light, with the blur of tears 
blinding her eyes, Huldah stepped directly in front of the ap¬ 
proaching horse. 

“Hello! there, look out!” cried a man’s voice, as the occu¬ 
pant of the sleigh drew in his horse. But too late! Huldah 
had stumbled and fallen in a heap in the snow. Springing 
out, the man lifted her gently to her feet. 

“Good heavens! mother, is it you?” cried he, as he looked 
into her face. And Huldah Moore knew that she leaned upon 
the strong arm of her only son. 

“Oh! Joseph, the Lord must a-sent ye home to take care of 
your poor old mother, jest when she needed ye the most!” 
cried she, clasping her arms about his neck. 

“Of course He did, mamma dear, and I’m going to do it, 
too,” answered the young man, kissing her tenderly. “But 





230 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


tell me how it happens you are so far from home this time of 
night ?” questioned he as he lifted his mother into the sleigh, 
and seated himself beside her. 

The feeling of joy and relief at her boy’s return had swept 
all anger and despair from her heart. With his comforting 
presence beside her, and the sure knowledge that she was 
going back to the dear old home she had thought to desert, 
Huldah’s courage and spirits returned. 

“Why, ye see, Joseph, your father got a little riled over 
somethin’ we were a-talkin’ ’bout, an’ I jest thought I’d take 
a little walk till he got cooled off,” answered she cheerfully. 

Joseph Laughed merrily. 

“ ’T wouldn’t be pa if he didn’t get riled once in a while, 
would it, ma?” said lie. “Hello! there he comes now. Merry 
Christmas, pa! ” 

Sure enough! Azariah’s tall figure, coatless and hatless, 
was coming towards them with long strides. As he heard his 
son’s voice, and his eyes fell upon the form beside him, he 
paused and gazed at them in bewildered surprise. 

“Why, Azariah Moore, you’ll catch yer death o’ cold, ’thout 
no hat on!” cried Iluldah, when the sleigh stopped before him. 
“What ever possessed ye?” 

Grasping his son’s hand in his own, Azariah smoothed his 
bare locks with the other, laughing a little constrainedly. 

“That’s so, wife, I must a-forgot it, I was in such a hurry. Ye 
see, Huldah, I come in to tell you that the calf had strayed 
back home; an then I went to the desk an’ pulled out a drawer, 
and there was that consarned wallet down behind it. I called 
ye to tell ye, an’ ye wa’n’t nowhere to be found.. It was a- 
growin’ so dark I got a little fretted ’bout ye, Huldah, an’ so 
was a-lookin’ out for ye.” 

The eyes of the two met, and Huldah smiled broadly to hide 
the tremble of her lips. 

“Well, Azariah, everything ’s all right, after all, so you 
jest squeeze in here, ’tween Joseph an’ I, an’ we’ll be a-gettin’ 
home afore ye get any more cold. An’ we won’t worry ’bout 
the mortgage, till to-morrow, anyway,” said she. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


231 


“By the way, father/’ said Joseph, as he tucked the buffalo 
robe round his father, and Huldah tied her handkerchief over 
his bare head with rather shaky fingers, “that mortgage is 
one of the things that I’ve come home to see to. Tom Jones 
has had a hold on the old place long enough, and I’m going to 
settle the whole of his account to-morrow. How will that do 
for a Christmas present, pa?” 

Azariah Moore drew in a long breath of complete satisfac¬ 
tion, as he answered, a little huskily: 

“You’re a good boy, Joseph, an’ you won’t be sorry for ’t.” 

“That’s all right, pa. I happened to find out what you didn’t 
intend I should know, that you borrowed that money of Tom 
to start me in business when I left home. So I’m only paying 
my debts, after all,” said Joseph with a gay laugh, as he drove 
into the dooryard with a loud flourish of jingling bells. 


TO THEE. 


When life seems darkest to mine eyes, 

And clouds o’ershadow all my skies, 
When hope has fled mid sorrows drear, 

And vanished joys seem doubly dear, 

Ah! then thy face comes back to me, 

And all my heart cries out to thee. 

When burdens hard for me to bear 
Weigh down my soul with bitter care, 
When storms have swept my frail bark o’er. 
And cruel rocks have crushed me sore, 
Then shorn of pride from bondage free, 

I turn with all my soul to thee. 

For thou hast been of all the earth 
The truest, and I know thy worth; 

And though the miles between us lie, 

And swift the years are speeding by, 

Yet still through tears thy face I see, 

And from all else I turn to thee. 






232 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


THE RUMMAGE SALE AT PLNEVILLE. 


“What on airth have ye done with my old ulster, Alvira?” 
said Silas Holbrook, poking his head into the pantry where 
Alvira stood molding her bread. “I’ve looked high an’ low 
for’t an’ taint nowhere, es I can see.” 

“Well, don’t look no more, then,” said his wife, without 
turning round. 

“But what have ye done with ’t, anyway?” persisted Silas. 

Alvira whirled round, a pan of bread in each hand, and Silas 
dodged quickly one side, to let her pass through the narrow 
door. Alvira had grown stout in the last few years, though 
Silas was still as little as a dried pepper. The oven door 
slammed before Alvira answered. 

“I’ve given it to Lucinda Peters for the rummage sale,” 
said she, as she turned and faced him. 

Silas’ underjaw dropped, and his faded blue eyes looked 
bewildered, as he sank down upon the empty woodbox. 

“Gi’n it to Lucinda Peters fur the rummage sale. An' 
what’s a rummage sale, Alvira?” said he, in a hopeless tone. 

“Lucinda says it’s the latest fad, the city folks has got up, 
to make money for church societies, relief corps an’ sich like. 
An’ the Pineville folks aint a-goin’ to be behind hand, so they 
’re a going to have one, two, and, you see, everyone rummages 
through their attics fur all the old truck they’ve had hid up 
for the last 40 year, an’ brushes it up, an’ sends it to be sold. 
Then the poor people come in an’ buy it fur a little o’ nothin’, 
an’ the money goes to the church. When Lucinda called to see 
what I’d give, I was too busy to go rummagin’ in the attic, so 
I rummaged the woodshed, an’ found your old ulster. Now, 
Silas, you’ve had that old coat, I don’t know how many years, 
an’ you never wear it only when you go trampin’ in the woods, 
an’ I’m sick o’ seein’ it round, so I’m glad it’s gone,” an¬ 
swered Alvira briskly. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


233 


“An’ I’m powerful sorry, Alvira,” said Silas, dejectedly. 

“Land sakes! Silas, you look as mournful as ef I’d given 
away ye’re last cent!” said his wife, a little scornfully. 

“Seem’s almost es ef ye had, Alvira,” answered Silas, hoist¬ 
ing himself down from the wood-box, and shuffling slowly out 
of the room to the shed. 

With his hands thrust into his trousers pocket, Silas gazed 
disconsolately at the empty peg, where for so long a time had 
hung that shabby old ulster. 

“Who’d ever dreamed that Alvira ’d gi’n that ere coat 
away!” muttered he. “She hain’t teched it fur years, es I 
c’n remember, to sew a button on’t nor nothin’, an’ I didn’t 
suppose she ever would. I never’d a left them things in the 
pockets ef I’d thought Alvira ’d go nigh it! an ’ now the hull 
thing’s gone.” Silas sank down upon the chopping block and 
groaned aloud. 

Silas groaned again as he opened the kitchen door and called 
loudly, “Alvira!” 

“Well, Silas, what is it?” answered his wife. 

“Where’s Lucinda Peters’ a-havin that air rummage sale 
ye’re tellin’ on?” asked Silas. 

“In the back room o’ Jake Wetherell’s store down in Pine- 
ville. Jake said the women could have the use of it if they 
cleaned it up first. ’ ’ 

“Hull! Jake knew what he was about that time, fur the 
place hain’t been cleaned up since the year one,” said Silas, 
as he closed the kitchen door. 

A little later the sound of sleigh bells caused Alvira to look 
out the window. 

“I swum! ef there ain’t Silas a-drivin’ off to the village 
without sayin’ a word to me! An’ I’d been a-thinkin’ I’d go 
down myself. It’s jest like the selfishness of man, anyhow. 
Lucinda says they air all tyrants, even the best on ’em. ’ ’ 

Pineville was all excitement over the rummage sale in Jake 
Wetherell’s store. Lucinda Peters had stirred up the farmers’ 
wives to raisack their houses from cellar to garret, and the 
result was decidedly unique. 






234 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


There were disabled flatirons, weak-backed chairs, and pitch¬ 
ers minus noses. There was the old-fashioned wooden bread 
trough, mounted on rockers that served as cradles in the long 
ago. Rickety spinning wheels, whose busy whirl had long 
been silent, stood beside broken lawn mowers, rakes without 
handles, and a two-legged milking stool. The parson’s oldest 
silk hat, a Grand Army overcoat—and a pair of white kid 
slippers—were on a table with a cracked looking glass and a 
pair of rusty andirons. 

Silas Holbrook walked into the store and glanced about him 
curiously. 

“Looks like an auction of the town poor!” he muttered to 
himself, then as Lucinda Peters came toward him he asked 
eagerly: 

“Have ye sold that old ulster o’ mine that Alvira gi’n ye, 
Mis’s Peters? Cause ef ye hain’t I’d jest as soon buy it back 
’s not!” 

“Why, Mr. Holbrook, that’s too bad, for I sold it only two 
hours ago,” answered Lucinda. 

Silas’ hands trembled visibly, as he buttoned up his coat 
and pulled his cap down over his ears. “Who bought it, Mis’ 
Peters?” asked he, a little huskily. 

“The man was a stranger to me, but someone said he came 
from Woodstock,” said Lucinda, eyeing him curiously. “Was 
you particularly attached to that coat, Mr. Holbrook?” 

“W’ll, yes, I was a leetle sot on’t. Used to wear it when 
I went a trampin’, you know,” answered Silas, making an ef¬ 
fort to smile as he turned away. 

Once more in his sleigh, he drove slowly homeward, mutter¬ 
ing dejectedly as he went: 

“ ’Taint no use a trapesein’ over to Woodstock atter a man 
you don’t know who, an’ I don’t suppose I’ll ever see that 
coat, or what’s in the pockets agin. Land knows what I’m a- 
goin’ to do, nor what Alvira’ll do either, when she finds it 
out,” and the old man sighed heavily. 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


235 


For a week or more, Silas went about looking so woe-begone 
and desolate, eating scarcely anything, and saying so little that 
Alvira began to grow alarmed. 

“For the land’s sake, Silas, what ever does ail ye?” she ex¬ 
claimed one morning, as Silas sat curled over the fire, his head 
buried in his hands. “Ye ain’t sick, be ye?” 

“I guess that’s jest what I be, Alvira, sort o’ sick,” said he 
without looking up. 

* 1 ’Taint like es if ye was comin ’ down with anything, is it ? ” 
questioned his wife anxiously. 

“Seems if I was, Alvira, an’ I do wish that Ezra was to 
home.” The last words were said in so mournful a tone that 
Alvira flushed as she answered quickly: 

“If Ezra wasn’t an ungrateful and selfish boy he’d be home 
now,” said she. 

“There, Alvira!” said Silas, lifting his head and looking at 
his wife a little sternly, “don’t you go talkin’ hard agin’ 
Ezra. You know he’d never a-gone away ef ye hadn’t a-been 
so sot agin’ him an’ Matilda a-gettin’ fond o’ one another.” 

“Matilda was too young to think o’ gettin’ married, Silas, 
an’ you know it,” said she hastily, avoiding his eye as she 
spoke. “She’s better off a-learnin’ the milliner’s trade down 
to Boston than a-gettin’ married at her age.” 

“Mebbe so, Alvira, mebbe so, though I alius thought she 
favored Ezra considerable, too,” answered Silas, with a little 
sigh. 

Ezra was Silas Holbrook’s son by his first wife, and Matilda 
was the daughter of Alvira by a former husband. Their pa¬ 
rents having married when the children where quite young, 
they had been happy playmates for several years. 

But when Ezra was 21, and Matilda 18, they discovered that 
their affection for each other was stronger than that of brother 
and sister. When Alvira’s eyes were opened to this fact she 
decided to end the matter then and there, and, with a mother’s 
tact, she aroused the girl’s ambition for new scenes. 

Understanding his stepmother’s motive in thus separating 
them, Ezra, like a young man in love, became sulky and moody, 




236 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


\ 


until after several stormy scenes between them he, too, left 
his childhood’s home. For a time Ezra had written his father 
frequent letters, but now there was a silence of many months, 
and the old man yearned silently for his only son. 

The next day, Silas was too ill to leave his bed, and Alvira, 
leaving a neighbor to sit with him, drove down to Pineville 
for the doctor. As she entered the little village, she noticed 
an unusual stir and excitement, while groups of men were 
standing about talking earnestly. 

Pausing before the village bank, she felt her heart leap to 
her throat, as she read the placard that was nailed upon the 
closed door: 


SUSPENDED PAYMENT. 

For a few moments Alvira gazed at the black letters, as 
though spellbound. Then gathering herself together, she drove 
swiftly to the doctor’s, and, leaving her message, she turned 
her horse homeward. Forgetting in her excitement her hus¬ 
band’s condition, Alvira burst into the house, exclaiming bit¬ 
terly : 

“There, Silas! it ’s happened jest ’s I said ’twould! The 
Pineville bank’s failed up, an’ every cent we’ve got in the 
world’s gone to the dogs. If you’d only a-taken the money 
out, when I told ye to, we might a saved it!” moaned she, 
swaying to and fro with her face buried in her hands. 

“That’s jest what I did do, Alvira,” answered Silas, feebly. 

The woman’s hands dropped to her lap as she gazed at him 
in surprise. 

“You did, Silas!” she cried, “an’ what have ye done with it, 
put it in the bank down to Woodstock?” 

“That’s what I was thinking o’ doin’, Alvira, an’ then I lost 
it,” said Silas, in a desperate tone. 

Alvira’s ruddy face grew pale with horror and amazement 
and she sprang to her feet. 

“Lost it!” she almost screamed. “If you ain’t the most 
shiftless man on the face of this earth, Silas Holbrook!” and 
she began to cry bitterly. 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


237 


“1 know I be, Alvira, an’ I’d jest es lieve die es not,” mur¬ 
mured the sick man, turning his face to the wall, with a long 
sigh. 

For a few days it almost seemed as though Silas’ despondent 
wish would be realized, but at last the fever went down and 
he began slowly to recover. In her husband’s weak condition 
she dared not reproach him again for his carelessness, yet she 
struggled constantly with the bitter words that rose to her 
lips. 

One day, in the midst of her anxious thoughts, she heard 
the sound of sleigh bells, that paused with a merry flourish 
before the door. Starting to her feet she was about to open 
it when, like a whirlwind, there flew into the room a young 
girl, rosy and smiling. Throwing her arms about Alvira’s neck 
she exclaimed: 

“0! mother! please don’t scold us, but Ezra and I have gone 
and got married. You see Ezra’s got a fine position down to 
Boston, and I got so tired trying to be a milliner, when I 
couldn’t make a stylish bow to save my life, so Ezra thought 
I’d better give it up and get married. Now, mother, do say 
you forgive us, because if you don’t, Ezra says he’ll take me 
straight back to Boston tonight.” 

Alvira ’& face had grown pale with anger and disappoint¬ 
ment, as she listened to her daughter’s words, yet she kissed 
the girl fondly. Turning to the young man who had just 
walked into the room, she said reproachfully: 

“Ezra Holbrook, how could you persuade Matilda to take 
such a step when you knew—” 

“Yes, mother, I knew that you didn’t like me, but—” began 
Ezra— 

“As long as I did, mother, he couldn’t do any different, you 
see. And really I don’t think I needed so very much persuad¬ 
ing, did I Ezra?” 

Before Alvira could answer, they heard Silas’ voice calling 
his son’s name. 

“Is father sick?” questioned Ezra, starting up. 




238 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Yes, Ezra, an’ lie wants to see ye powerful bad,” an¬ 
swered Alvira. 

Ezra Holbrook wore a new and stylish overcoat, yet over 
his arm w r as flung a heavy ulster faded and worn. Walking 
into his father’s room, he threw it across a chair, saying as 
he shook hands with his father: 

“There, father, you’ll never guess where I found your old 
ulster?” 

As he heard these words, Silas rose up in his bed and held 
out his trembling hands eagerly. 

“Gi’n it to me, Ezra, gi’n it to me!” he cried. 

Ezra threw the old coat over the foot of the bed, and watch¬ 
ed his father wonderingly as he thrust his hands eagerly into 
the pockets. A groan burst from his lips at their emptiness, then 
suddenly feeling through a slit in one pocket, he drew from 
between the linings a long flat package. With a sigh of utter 
relief, he fell back upon his pillow, the package clutched tight¬ 
ly in his hands: 

“Alvira! Alvira! tTie money’s found!” he called loudly to 
his wife. 

“Silas, if he only takes good care o’ Matilda, I won’t say 
no more agin the marriage,” said Alvira with a grim smile. 
“But for the land’s sake, do tell us how your father’s old 
ulster come into your hands, after I’d give it to Lucinda Pe¬ 
ters for the rummage sale?” 

“That’s the queerest part of it, mother,” said Ezra, with a 
laugh, “for I never dreamed that there was anything valuable 
in the pockets when I found it. I was sent by the firm I am 
working for, to transact a little business in Woodstock. While 
waiting for a car, I saw a man, who looked so familiar that I 
thought it must be father, wearing his old ulster. He went into 
a pawnbroker’s shop, and I watched for him to come out. 
Several men passed out as I watched, but no one wearing that 
old coat. Something, I don’t know what, prompted me to go 
inside. And there on the counter lay your old ulster. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It looked so homelike and familiar I couldn’t keep my eyes 
off of it, and the proprietor offered to sell it to me. I asked 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


239 


him where he got it, and told him it had once belonged to my 
father. He said he had just bought it of Jim Burk, a noto¬ 
rious drunkard of the town. ’ ’ 

“Of course, I didn’t really want it, and yet it seemed im¬ 
possible for me to leave it there, and I gave the man $1 and 
took it. I supposed, of course, you had given it away, and that 
it would be a joke to bring it home again, and, by George! it 
has been, a rich one, worth $1500 in cash! ’ ’ 


IN THY GOOD TIME. 


In thy good time, 0 Lord, grant thou my prayer! 

Forgive that in my pain my soul should dare 
To doubt thy love or feel thy promise vain, 

My human strength grow weak, my human courage wane. 

In thy good time let this sufficient be, 

Lest in my haste I drive thee far from me; 

For surely thou dost know my every need, 

Canst see my anguished heart in sorrow bleed. 

In thy good time, e’en though I may not see 
My hopes fulfilled till years have come to me, 

Or till, perchance, my tired feet shall rest 
On that glad shore, that haven of the blest. 

In thy good time, oh, let my longings cease, 

And fill my weary soul with reverent peace. 

Let stronger faith with all my prayers be blent, 

Teach me to trust, and, trusting, find content. 






240 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


OBADIAH’S AUCTION. 


It was a warm morning in early fall. Silas Holbrook hitched 
the old gray mare into the democrat wagon and drove slowly 
out of the barnyard. Pausing before the farmhouse, he 
shouted: 

* * Alvira! Alvira! ’ ’ < 

4 * Well, Silas, what is it?” His wife opened the kitchen door 
with a jerk. “Anybody’d suppose the house was afire, the 
way you holler.” 

“I jest wanted to say that I was a goin’ to the auction,” 
said Silas, meekly. 

“What auction?” snapped Alvira, crossly. “Seems to me 
you are always a goin’ to some auction or other an bringin’ 
home useless trash to litter up the house. As ef we hadn’t got 
old truck enough of our own without payin’ good money to 
store some other folkses.” 

“ ’Taint likely I’ll bring home much this time, Alvira, but 
I’m anxious to find out what Obadiah’s a goin’ to do atter 
it’s all over.” 

“So, it’s the old Wood place, is it?” asked Alvira. 

“Yes. The taxes have jest about eat up the whole place, 
an’ the town’s took it. Obadiah hain’t heard a word from 
Luther for more’n a year. They writ all over creation the 
time his wife died, six months ago, but all the letters came 
back. Obadiah thinks he’s dead, but I have an idee he’ll turn 
up yet.” 

“Well, I hain’t no such idea, an’ I don’t believe he’s dead, 
either,” said Alvira, scornfully. “Luther Wood was always 
a wild, good-for-nothin’ fellow, an’ when he rushed off to the 
gold mines an’ deserted his wife an’ year-old baby I made up 
my mind it was the last we’d ever see o’ him, an’ I hain’t had 
no cause to change it either.” 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


241 


Twenty years before there was no more prosperous former 
for miles around than this same Obadiah Wood. Then the 
clouds of misfortune gathered about him, and the storms of 
adversity swept nearly all of his earthly possessions. 

The death of his wife, the loss of poorly invested money, the 
breaking down of his own health, and the consequent neglect 
of his farm work, followed one upon the other in swift suc¬ 
cession. 

The marriage of his only son, Luther, to a frail, delicate 
girl, wholly unsuited to the duties of a farmer’s wife, was an 
added burden. 

Ambitious and restless, with no taste for farm life, Luther 
Wood w r as an easy victim to the gold fever. Dazzled by its 
golden visions, he joined a party of enthusiasts and departed 
for the Eldorado of his dreams. 

For a time his hopeful letters cheered and comforted the 
lonely household, but suddenly these ceased, and the weeks 
and months passed by with no tidings of the traveler. 

Then it was that the invisible power which had upheld Seli¬ 
na Wood through so many trials gave way, and the tired little 
wife folded her hands over her broken heart and went to her 
deep sleep. 

And now powerless to keep a roof over his own and little 
grandchild’s head any longer, Obadiah Wood waited with 
bitter resignation the action of the town upon his proporty. 

A large crowd had gathered when Silas Holbrook arrived 
at the old Wood place, and teams of every description stood 
about the dooryard. Through the open door of the farmhouse 
a babble of voices was heard. Silas pushed his way in among 
the speakers. 

“Where’s Obadiah?” he asked of a group of curious people 
who were handling with impunity the sacred relics of this old 
New England family. 

“Ain’t seen a thing o’ him nor the little gal this mornin’,” 
said Jake Wetherell, who, with paper and pencil in hand, was 
taking an inventory of household goods preparatory to the 
sale. 




242 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“Say, Silas/’ continued he, lowering his voice, “there ain’t 
nothin’ left for them two but the poorhouse, an’ the selectmen 
are a goin’ to take ’em up there soon’s the auction’s over.” 

“Not so long as I have a home to ask ’em to,” exclaimed 
Silas, indignantly. 

Shrinking from seeing his household treasures despoiled by 
the crowd, Obadiah had taken his little granddaughter, Jean¬ 
nette, and led her into the apple orchard, and there, seated on 
the low stone wall, with the child in his arms, Silas found him. 

Lifting his eyes to the face of his friend he said, in a trem¬ 
bling voice: “Seems mighty hard to let the old place go, 
Silas.” 

“So it does, Obadiah—so it does,” answered Silas, his own 
voice husky with suppressed feeling. “But don’t you gin up 
yet, Obadiah. Luther will be a cornin’ home soon an’ he’ll 
straighten things out in no time, an’ until he does you an’ little 
Jeanette air a goin’ home long o’ me to stay.” 

“No, Silas, I couldn’t think o’ bein’ a burden on ye. If it 
wa’n’t fur Jeannette here I wouldn’t mind so much, but the 
poorhouse ain’t no place fur a delicate little critter like her.” 

“ ’Tain’t no place fur either on ye,” exclaimed Silas, im¬ 
patiently, “an’ ye won’t go there ef I can help it, Obadiah.” 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening when Silas Hol¬ 
brook, with Obadiah and Jeannette, drove homeward. Crushed 
by his misfortunes, Obadiah had yielded to Silas’ persuasions, 
though his heart misgave him as he climbed tremblingly into 
the wagon. 

As they rode along, a feeling of uneasiness crept over Silas 
at the thought of what Alvira would say on their arrival. 
Hiding it as best he could, he drove on with a brave front. 

As he neared the house, its silent, deserted appearance 
struck him with a sense of foreboding. No lights were visible 
and every blind was closed and fastened over the windows. 

“Alvira! Alvira! Where be ye?” he called loudly, but no 
one answered. 

Suddenly glancing up, he saw his wife’s face as she peeped 
from an attic window, then disappeared. Picking up a small 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


243 


stone, he tossed it lightly against the window pane. Getting 
no response, he threw a larger one with greater force, and a 
sound of broken glass followed its flight. Up went the attic 
window and Alvira’s angry face glared down on the astonished 
man. 

“Fur the land sakes, Alvira, what be you a doin’ up there?” 
he cried. “Come down an’let us in. I’ve brung Obadiah and 
Jeannette home with me.” 

“Silas Holbrook, that man and young one can’t come into 
this house. I tell you I won’t have ’em’” Alvira answered 
angrily. 

“Then there ain’t no place fur ’em but the poorhouse, Alvi¬ 
ra,” said Silas sadly. 

“That ain’t no fault of mine, and I won’t be bothered with 
’em; that’s settled,” snapped Alvira, and down came the win¬ 
dow with a bang. 

For a moment Silas stood as if rooted to the spot, his up¬ 
turned face gazing blankly at the closed window. The scrap¬ 
ing noise of the wagon wheels aroused him, as he hastened to 
the front of the house as Obadiah turned the horse toward 
the road. 

“I heard every word Alvira said, Silas, an’ I don’t blame her 
a mite,” he said, “an’ if you’ll drive us over to the poorhouse, 
I’m ready to go.” 

Without a word Silas climbed into the wagon, careful not 
to waken Jeannette, who had fallen asleep as she crouched in 
the bottom of the wagon, her head against her grandfather’s 
knee. 

Silently they rode out into the gathering twilight, and no 
word was spoken during the three-mile ride to the town farm. 
A little later, when the two homeless ones were comfortably 
sheltered, and the kind-hearted matron had gathered the little 
motherless Jeannette into her arms, Silas Holbrook once more 
turned the mare homeward. 

Tender-hearted and slow to anger was Silas Holbrook, yet 
once let the spark be kindled, it blazed with fierce wrath. And 





244 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


now a feeling of hot resentment against Alvira burned within 
him. Bitterly he thought of her cruel selfishness, and his own 
heart hardened against her. 

“I’ve a good mind not to go home at all,” he muttered 
aloud. 

As he spoke a low rumble of thunder, followed by a flash 
of lightning, startled him. The mare shied, then sprang for¬ 
ward into the darkness. Another peal, a blinding flash; the 
wagon wheel struck a stone and Silas felt himself thrown vio¬ 
lently to the ground. Then he knew no more. 

To Alvira Holbrook the night was a memorable one. As the 
night advanced and Silas did not return Alvira grew a little 
anxious, through her stubborn will would not yield itself in 
the wrong. 

At sunrise she arose, and as she looked forth upon the beau¬ 
tiful morning her eyes fell upon the old gray mare, still 
hitched to the democrat wagon, standing quietly in the door- 
yard. For a moment she gazed in dull surprise, then stepping 
out she glanced around for her husband, saying impatiently: 

“Well, Silas Holbrook, if you haven’t given me a pretty 
scare, a-stayin’ out till this time.” 

Her words seemed to die away into the silence that fol¬ 
lowed, while the mare took a step forward and looked at her 
with big, reproachful eyes. 

She harnessed the mare into the buggy and started out in 
search of her husband. Driving toward the poorhouse, where 
she intended to make inquiries, she met the village doctor. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Holbrook,” said he, drawing in his 
horse as they met. “I was about calling to see you to relieve 
your mind in regard to your husband. He has met with an 
accident. His horse got frightened at the storm last night, 
threw him from the wagon and ran away. One of the farm 
hands at the poorhouse found him insensible by the roadside 
and carried him to the house. His leg was broken and he was 
badly bruised.” 

They sent for me and I have set his leg and lie is doing 
as well as can be expected.” 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


245 


“I want to see Silas!” she said, stepping briskly up to the 
door of the poorhouse a few minutes later. “Dr. Brown said 
he was here with a broken leg.” 

Martha Thompson, the matron, blocked the doorway with 
her portly figure, and looked at Alvira with stern eyes. 

“Well, Mrs. Holbrook, ye can’t see him ef he is!” she said 
cooly. 

“I’d jest like to know why?” snapped Alvira, angrily. 

* 1 ’Cause the first thing that Si Holbrook said when he came 
to his senses was this: 

“ ’It’s all Alvira’s fault, every mite on’t, an’ I ain’t a goin’ 
home no more. If the poor house is good enough for Obadiali 
Wood, it’s good enough for me, an’ here I’m going to stay. 
An’ if Alvira comes after me don’t you let her in, Martha.” 

During the days that followed, Alvira had plenty of time 
for reflection. She drove daily over to the poorhouse only to 
be met with the same refusal from Silas and the same stubborn 
firmness from Martha Thompson. 

Day by day the old farmhouse grew more and more desolate 
and lonely without its master. Night after night she sat by 
her lonely fireside and gazed with gloomy eyes at the vacant 
chair opposite. Longer and longer grew the dark night hours, 
when, sleepless, she tossed upon her pillow and thought of 
the past. 

Of the long years that she and Silas had lived together in 
happiness and content, of his patient loving kindness and ten¬ 
der ways, of her own quick temper, sharp tongue and lack of 

self-control. 

Bitter, indeed, were her reflections. Remorse, regret and 
shame filled her soul with torture. What could she do to 
atone? How prevail upon Silas to forgive her and return to 
his home? At last her resolve was taken. 

Six long weeks had passed, and Silas had recovered as far 
as to hobble about on crutches, when one bright morning lie 
saw Alvira drive into the dooryard. From his chamber win¬ 
dow he watched her unseen, and, in spite of himself, a wistful 
look crept into his eyes. 



246 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


“ Tain’t right a livin’ this way. ’Tain’t right, an’ I know 
it,” he muttered sadly. 

Meanwhile, Alvira had hitched the mare and was looking 
about the big grassy lawn, as if in search of some one. Pres¬ 
ently she spied Obadiah Wood’s white head and the red dress 
of little Jeannette, as they wandered hand in hand. Hastening 
toward them, she said quickly: 

“Obadiah Wood, do you want to be the means of separatin’ 
man an’ wife?” 

The old man looked at her sorrowfully. 

“No, Alvira, I don’t,” he answered sadly, “an’ I’m mighty 
sorry that Silas took sides with me agin’ you.” 

“He was right, Obadiah, an’ I was wrong,” said Alvira 
eagerly. “I’m willin’ to own it now, an’ if you an’ Jeannette 
will come home with me an’ stay till Luther comes, I’ll be very 
glad.” 

“ ’Taint likely Luther’ll come, Alvira, and I hate to be a 
burden to ye,” he said. 

Alvira held out one hand, while with the other she drew the 
little girl into her arms. 

“Obadiah, can’t you forgive an old woman’s hasty tem¬ 
per?” she cried, her eyes filling and her voice trembling. “We 
have a-plenty, more than a-plenty, an’ from my heart you are 
welcome. And may the Lord do to me even as I do to this 
little one.” 

She bent and kissed the little girl, who smiled and nestled 
closer to her side. Obadiah clasped the hand held out to him, 
saying gratefully: 

“Thank you, Alvira. I’ll come.” 

With these words they turned toward the house, and as 
they did they saw Silas standing in the doorway, a smile on 
his wrinkled face. 

“Ye ain’t a goin’ to leave me behind, Alvira, be ye?” said 
he, limping toward them, “ ’cause I was gettin’ sort o’ home¬ 
sick, an’ I was wonderin’ ef you didn’t feel a mite lonesome 
yourself?” 

It is the unexpected that always happens, and so it was only 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


247 


a few short weeks after Obadiah Wood and his grandchild 
were settled in their new home that Lnther Wood returned 
broken in health, prematurely gray, old before his time, but 
rich beyond his wildest dreams. 

To buy back the old homestead and to restore a few of its 
scattered treasures he could do, and when he came to take his 
father and little daughter back to their home he said to Silas: 

“Mr. Holbrook, I can never thank you enough for your kind¬ 
ness to my father in his hour of need. It is something that 
gold can never repay.” 

“Don’t mention it, Luther!” said Silas with a warm clasp 
of the hand. “It wan’t no more’n I ought to have done. But 
speakin’ about yere gold, ye’ll find there air a few things ye 
can’t buy with it, an’ things, if you had, ye wouldn’t barter 
for grist on’t. Alvira an’ I have been a-findin’ out on ’em. 
Ain’t that so, Alvira ? ’ ’ 


LIFT UP THINE EYES. 


Lift up thine eyes, my darling, 

Lift up thine eyes and pray 
That He who guides the starling 
Through its most devious way, 
Will keep our souls from straying 
Aside from truth and right, 

Ah! never cease thy praying 
For wisdom, faith and light. 

Lift up thine eyes, and seeking 
To do God’s gracious will, 

His every precept keeping, 

His blessed laws fulfill, 

Though life seems just a-groping, 
With weary, tear-blind eyes. 

Do not despair, but hoping, 

Still watch for brighter skies. 






248 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


A BABY’S SHOE. 


The ladies of St. Mark were holding a rummage sale. Beau¬ 
tiful women, high bred and dainty, stood behind the counters 
and handled their wares with the deftness of their more 
humble sisters. The accumulation of cast-off articles, which 
clutter the attics of every household, was spread upon the 
counters and shelves. Crowds of people, from the lowest to 
the highest grade of society, thronged the store, elbowing each 
other rudely. At the further end of the long store was a table 
piled high with children's clothing of every description. 
“Your Choice for 25 Cents!" was the motto upon the card, 
hung conspicuously above the table. Almost hidden beneath 
the pile was a little heap of baby shoes and stockings, and 
among them a tiny pair of blue kid shoes. They were a bit 
faded and worn, with faint creases at heel and toe where the 
chubby foot had pressed its weight against a mother’s knee. 
The soft white hand of the saleslady (pro tern.) seemed to 
linger caressingly upon this particular pair, as she sorted over 
the clothing for each new customer. 

There were round-faced Irish mothers, with their frowsy- 
headed offsprings clinging to their skirts, yellow-haired 
Swedes, whose wondering blue eyes took in every detail of the 
crowded table; and dark-browned Italian women carrying 
their babies within the shawls that were their only covering. 
Bernice Colby served them all graciously and sweetly, yet, as 
each turned away, her eye glanced with relief at the tiny blue 
shoes, still unclaimed. 

“How foolish*I am!" she whispered to herself. “Why can¬ 
not I give them up?" 

With a sudden impulse she held them out as a broad-faced 
Irish woman, with a cKttd in her arms, stood beside the table. 

“Och! mem, but them’s foine, indade," said the woman with 
a gay laugh. “But Jamey’s fut never’d squaze into the loiks 
o’ them." 





BREATH OF THE HILLS 


249 


A scarlet wave swept Bernice’s cheek as she dropped the 
little shoes, and hastily sought among the clothing for some¬ 
thing more suitable for the sturdy “Jamey.” Far back in the 
store, partly hidden by the crowd, a man stood watching Ber¬ 
nice’s table. It was a dark, handsome face, yet showing the 
marks of dissipation. As he witnessed the little scene a sneer 
surled his lips. 

“Heartless and cold! Willing to sell her dead baby’s shoes,” 
he muttered. 

Hastily pushing forward, the man approached the table. His 
upturned coat collar and the soft felt hat, pulled down over 
his brows, nearly concealed his face, yet as he brushed past the 
eyes of the two met. For a second the woman’s heart seemed 
to stand still within her bosom, as she recognized the man’s 
face; then he passed by and was gone. 

That night, as Bernice was being driven to her own luxu¬ 
rious home, she leaned back amidst the soft cushions with a 
weary sigh. Not because of the unusual exertions of the day 
was she spent and weary, but the sight of that dark, gloomy 
face, that for five long years she had longed, yet dreaded, to 
see, had completely unnerved her. With the door of the past 
thus opened, the waves of memory submerged her. Five years 
before, Bernice Colby had been a happy wife and mother. 
Then the dark angel had snatched from her arms their pre¬ 
cious burden. Selfishly yielding to the grief that overwhelmed 
her, she had neglected her wifely duties, until her husband 
had sought more cheerful company and consolation in the 
wine cup. Suddenly awakened to his intemperate habits, re¬ 
pugnance and disgust, for the time, swept love from her heart, 
and heedless of his repentance and remorse, she drove him 
from her with stinging words of bitter scorn. 

She sent him from her to do battle alone with that dread¬ 
ful demon that lies in wait for the souls of the weak and the 
unwary. Upheld by the praise of false friends, she deemed 
herself wise in thrusting from her so vile a thing, yet in the 
long and lonely years that followed the voice of conscience 
spoke loudly in her ear. It said that she herself was, in a 




250 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


measure, responsible for her husband’s downfall. That, had 
she been stronger, braver, her love and faith, her prayers and 
purity of living would have saved him. Alas! she had not 
stood the test! And so, though lacking naught that riches can 
buy, Bernice Colby was a childless mother and a wife in name 
only. 

The rummage sale was still in progress, and the next day 
Bernice stood behind her table, smiling and gracious, though 
her bright face hid an aching heart. In turning over the gar¬ 
ments upon her table she missed one of the tiny blue shoes, 
and with a faint smile she took its mate and thrust it quickly 
within the bosom of her dress. 

As the day sped onward, a heavy storm arose, the most 
severe of the season. A whirlwind of snowflakes blinded her 
eyes as she left the store, and hid from her view her own car¬ 
riage, as it stood among the long line of waiting coaches. 

Turning in the wrong direction, she stumbled into the arms 
of a man standing upon the curbstone. Starting back, she 
glanced up into his face, and their eyes met. 

“Ned!” 

“Bernice!” they both exclaimed in a breath. “Let me see 
you to your carriage?” said the man, and without a word Ber¬ 
nice placed her hand within his arm. With the touch of those 
light fingers, Ned Colby’s heart throbbed with the love of 
other days, and words of tenderness trembled upon his lips. 
Placing her within the carriage, he was about to turn away, 
yet her hand still clung to his arm as she said earnestly: 

“Oh! Ned! are you not coming, too?” 

“May I, Bernice?” questioned he eagerly. 

“Come!” answered his wife, drawing him in beside her with 
both hands. 

“Home, John,” cried Ned to the wondering coachman, and 
the door closed upon them. 

Something beside the whirling snow dimmed the old ser¬ 
vant’s eyes at the sound of that ringing voice. 

“Thank God! it’s the master!” he muttered as he gathered 
up his lines. 



BREATH OF THE HILLS 


251 


“Bernice, like the prodigal son, I have sinned against 
heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy—” 

“Hush, Ned!” whispered Bernice, covering his lips with her 
hand: “I have done wrong, too. Let us forget the past and 
begin our lives anew.” 

As she leaned towards him, there fell from the folds of her 
dress a tiny blue kid shoe. Holding it up, Bernice whispered 
softly: 

“The baby’s shoe.” 

Thrusting his hand into his coat pocket, Ned drew out its 
mate, and crushing them both together in the little hand that 
held them, he bent and kissed his wife tenderly. 

“Our baby’s shoe!” said he with a smile. 


WELL DONE. 


When blessed night excludes the day 
And darkness hides the sun, 

How many weary souls can say, 

“This day my work’s well done;” 

And lying down in peace to sleep, 

Can feel the sweet content, 

That comes when we have done our best, 
And the day has been well spent; 

Can look back o’er each word and deed, 
And count them all as right, 

To find not one we feel the need 
Of hiding from the light. 

Then let us try to do our best, 

So that in future years, 

We’ll feel that we have earned a rest 
With no regretful tears. 





252 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


THE GREATER HERO. 


A Memorial Hay Story. 

It was Memorial Day. That day set apart by a grateful 
country, to perpetuate the memory of its heroic dead. The 
day in which loyal hearts made loving tribute to our * Boys 
in Blue.” In thousands of households, this day woke anew 
sad memories of the past, and widowed wives and bereaved 
children felt again the “good-bye” kiss, and the touch of a 
vanished hand. To Rachel Montigue this day was particularly 
sacred. Not that her sorrow was deeper, or her bereavement 
greater than that borne by other lonely hearts, but in her eyes, 
and the eyes of the world at large, her husband, Colonel Mon¬ 
tigue was one of the greatest heroes of the Civil War. Faith¬ 
ful indeed had been the service he had rendered his country 
in her hour of need. 

Leaving a home of luxury, a prosperous business, and a beau¬ 
tiful young wife, he had been one of the first to volunteer, and 
not until the last great victory was sounded, did he leave his 
post. Then, wounded and broken, he had been brought home 
to breathe his last with the face of his beloved one bending 
over him. In an expensive lot, in a handsome cemetery, he 
slept the eternal sleep, while above him towered a stately 
monument, on which were carved his deeds of valor, a tribute 
from loving hearts. In the years that had sped, Rachel Mon¬ 
tigue had kept green the memory of her young husband, and 
none other had been found worthy to take his place. Each 
Memorial day, the choicest blossoms from the greenhouse she 
placed with lavish hand before that marble shaft. Today her 
heart is filled with sad, but tender memories, as she rolls along 
in her luxurious carriage, through the beautiful cemetery 
drives. Her arms laden with fragrant blooms, she steps to the 
ground, the coachman drives slowly away, and Rachel Mon- 




BREATH OF THE HILLS 


253 


tigue is alone with her dead. With dainty fingers she arranges 
the flowers in the handsome urns made for them. Suddenly 
a low moan startled her, and turning, she saw an old negress, 
bent and wrinkled, sink wearily down upon the curbing. 

“Don’t look lac as if I’d trabble dis ere road many more 
times, Honey,” said she, glancing at Rachel with a patient 
smile. 

“Why do you come?” answered Rachel, with careless cu¬ 
riosity. The old woman’s eyes flashed her a look of reproach. 

“I spects I done come Honey, fur de same reason what you 
does. To put posies on de ole man’s grabe,” said she, pointing 
with shaking finger at the flower strewn sod. 

Rachel smiled as she answered softly, “Of course you do, 
Mamma. I meant no offence, but was your ‘ole man’ killed 
in the war?” 

“Reckon he was, Honey, an jest es if ’twant bad enough to 
be killed, there comes along a shell an’ blows de body all to 
pieces, so dere want not’in to tote home to his ole ’oman, but 
the ole blue cap an’ canteen.” 

“How dreadful?” exclaimed Rachel in a shocked tone. “But 
you spoke of his grave.” 

“Ob course, Honey, he’s got a grabe!” answered the old 
woman earnestly, “but dere ain’t not’in in it sabe dat ole blue 
cap an’ canteen. You see, Honey, when dey fust told me ’bout 
poor Pete, I was jest nacherly crazy, for we’d only been mar¬ 
ried a year, an’ had one lil piccannie. Then Pete’s cap’en 
came an brung me de ole blue cap an’ de canteen, an’ he said 
as how Pete was one of the bravest soldiers in de regiment, an’ 
dat just afore he was killed he’d sabed de life ob one ob de 
biggest Colonels in de Army. Den I sorter got puffed up with 
pride, an’ it done helped me bear de trouble, but the years 
hab been mighty lonesome ’thought my ole man,” and the 
woman sighed wearily. 

“Can you remember the Colonel’s name?” asked Rachel, 
much interested. 

“Reckon I can, Honey, ’taint lack I’d forget dat name,” 
said she proudly, “It was Colonel Ralph Montigue, Honey.” 



254 


BREATH OF THE HILLS 


For a moment Rachel could not speak, and the hot tears 
rushed to her eyes. Then pointing to the monument, she said 
softly, 

“Shall I read you what is written there, Mamma?” 

“Yes, Honey,” answered the old woman, her wondering eyes 
fixed on the beautiful marble. 

“Sacred to the memory of 
Colonel Ralph Montigue—” 

“For de Lawd’s sake, Honey, am dis Massa Montigue’s 
grabe? An’ be you Missis Montigue?” cried the negress, rising 
to her feet and holding out both hands to Rachel. 

‘ ‘ It surely is, Mamma, ’ ’ answered Rachel, clasping in her own 
the outstretched hands, and the tears of the white woman and 
the tears of the black woman were mingled in a common sor¬ 
row. 

Wheels grated upon the gravel walk, and Rachel beckoning 
to the astonished coachman, led the old negress to the waiting 
carriage. 

‘ ‘ Come, Mamma, let us go to Pete’s grave, ’ ’ said she, as she 
seated her among the soft cushions. 

Then she gathered together the lovely blossoms, leaving 
behind only the bunch of faded lilacs, dropped from the old 
woman’s hand. In a ragged lot, in a far corner of that large 
cemetery, was a grass ground mound, marked only by a wooden 
cross. Here Rachel heaped the wealth of flowers she had 
brought for her own dear one, smiling through her tears at 
the old woman’s exclamations of delight. A few weeks later 
there stood, in place of that humble cross, a handsome marble 
slab, on which was inscribed: 

“Sacred to the memory of 
Peter Johnson, 

A brave soldier in the war of the Rebellion, who was killed in 
the act of saving the life of a superior officer.” 

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down 
his life for his friends. ’ ’ 

















































































































































